


in the land of gods and monsters

by qqueenofhades



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Stardust AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 37,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: Stardust AU. When Chloe Decker, a LAPD homicide detective, visits her friend Linda Martin in the strange little town of Wall, England, she is about to stumble on a world much weirder than she imagined, and a man she never saw coming. If she can survive the adventure and Lucifer Morningstar alike - not to mention what she might just learn about her own past - it'll be a miracle.





	1. The World Beyond The Wall

_in the land of gods and monsters, i was an angel_  
_living in the garden of evil,_  
_screwed up, scared, doing anything that i needed,_  
_shining like a fiery beacon,_  
_you got that medicine i need_  
_fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly._  
_put your hands on my waist, do it softly._  
_me and god we don't get along, so now i sing._

* * *

**I.**

Wall, England, is not the easiest place in the world to get to.

Especially, that is, from the West Coast of America. First it's a ten-hour-plus flight from LAX to London, then an hour-long flight to Manchester, then a two-hour train trip further north to Carlisle, and then finding a train service that runs only twice a day with approximately six passengers but which byzantine English railroad regulations won't allow to actually be axed without endless fuss and bother and popped monocles, and climbing aboard for another forty-odd minutes (assuming there aren't sheep on the tracks or something) to get to the nearest _station,_ which in fact is _still_ thirty minutes away from Wall. The last stop past nowhere is a pretty good way to describe it. And when you're standing on the empty platform, shivering until your teeth rattle after a day and night of traveling, freezing because you're from California and the wind cuts right through your light jacket, and your phone doesn't work because there's no godforsaken wifi signal for you to so much as use WhatsApp, and you're exhausted and your knees are buckling, you begin to wonder if this was entirely worth it.

What were you even _thinking,_ anyway?

Such is the predicament that Chloe Decker is, in fact, presently in. Linda said she was going to be here when the train arrived, but it is a solid twenty minutes past said arrival, it's dark as the inside of Donald Trump's soul, there is nobody else here (even the tiny ticket window has had the shutters put up for the night) and she's reduced to hopping from foot to foot to not freeze to death. At least her bags made the endless journey with her, so it could be worse, and at least she's here. She can't deny she has been looking forward to this, if nothing else because she desperately needs to get away. She's been a police detective in Los Angeles for almost the last decade, has just finalized her divorce, and is now facing the prospect of being a mid-thirties single mom with few friends, a dead father, a wacky mother, and no siblings or other family to speak of, a stressful and isolating career where she still has to see her ex every day at the office, and the haunting specter of many, many cats in her future. Linda Martin used to be a high-powered shrink in L.A., but she left the rat race, and the country, about five years ago and moved here, to the back of beyond. Now she grows vegetables and goes hill-walking and, presumably, relaxes. Chloe wonders what that's like. She has a vague academic idea, but no more.

At last, just when she's wondering if it would be safe to hitchhike, headlights appear around the corner, gravel crunches, and Linda finally pulls up in her little silver hatchback. She gets out, apologizes profusely for her lateness, hugs Chloe tightly and tells her that she's glad she's here, and hauls her bags into the trunk (or, Chloe supposes, _boot)._ She starts to get into the passenger side before remembering that that is of course the driver's side here, switches around, and buckles up. The heat is on high, Linda is playing some CD of Celtic harp music, and Chloe starts to doze as they bump along narrow single-track roads with wild thorny hedgerows to every side, ancient yews and hawthorns craning overhead. Linda makes light conversation, nothing too stressful, knowing she's exhausted and jet-lagged, until they turn down a dark lane that seems to last forever and finally come to a halt at the end. Linda's house is a small cottage of grey stone, covered with vines and moss, from the 1700s or something. She got it at a good price since it needed so much work, and she's looking forward to showing off the results.

Chloe stumbles out of the car, sleepy and yawning, as her boots squelch in the mud (she has been warned to be prepared for plenty of this, especially in northern England in March) and she follows Linda up to the green-painted door and ducks inside. The ceilings are low, the beams crooked, the floors wooden, and there's a warm fire in the living room. There are shelves of books, quilts draped over the back of the couch, diamond-glass windows, and the stairs groan like an old man with arthritis when Chloe heads up them to the second floor. The guest room is tucked under a gable, and she shuts the doors, gets undressed, and proceeds to plow into bed like a crashing Star Destroyer. She's so wiped that she should just drop off like someone shot her in the head, and she nearly does, but this place keeps _thumping_ and whispering, and even for someone as completely skeptical and agnostic as she is, it half makes her wonder if some ghost in a fancy coat and a wig is going to drift through that door and give her a terrible turn. This place is probably haunted. Would Linda have told her if it was haunted? She would have, right?

Boogeymen or no boogeymen, however, exhaustion finally wins out. And when it does, Chloe's sleep is completely and utterly dreamless.

"So," she says the next morning, when she's showered, fought with the sink taps (there are two, one dispenses very hot water and the other very cold water, so it's either scorching or freezing when you're trying to wash your face) and, feeling somewhat more human, has bumbled downstairs to the kitchen, where Linda has made a delicious traditional English breakfast (well, delicious if you like things fried, and also fried, and beans, but there you go). "You going to, I don't know, take me out and see the sights? Whatever passes for them in Wall, that is?"

"If you want to." Linda forks more sausages onto her plate. "But remember, Chloe, I asked you if you wanted to come and stay so you could have time for you. It's about what _you_ want to do. There's a bike in the garden shed, it's only a ten-minute ride into town, you're welcome to look around. Go wherever you want, but. . ." She pauses, then says lightly, "Don't cross the wall."

"What? Oh right, the one this town is named for?" Chloe taps her phone, which still isn't working. Linda has internet, of course, but she's said that electronics just sometimes fritz out here for no apparent reason, so unless that cooperates, cozy evening Netflix binges might be out. "Why, I might end up in Scotland? Or is it some kind of cultural thing?"

"I suppose both, really." Linda sits down with her coffee, which she still drinks as an expat, though she's made Chloe some proper tea. "You just. . . well, it's better not to."

"Oh?" Chloe raises an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Why, what's it supposed to do?"

"It leads into another world." Linda takes a sip of her coffee. "Things are. . . thin up here."

"Right, okay. Local folklore, like you don't step into a stone circle or whatever because it might be a faerie circle, and you don't get yelled at in a very thick brogue when you go back to town the next time." Chloe puts the last of her egg onto her toast and gulps it down, then wipes her fingers and gets up. "Don't worry, the wall is safe from me. Have a good day, Linda."

Linda graciously wishes her the same, and Chloe gets her bag, heads out to the shed, and spends the next twenty minutes engaged in a battle of wills with the bicycle, which does not have gears, appears to be older than her, and was almost certainly ridden by someone wearing tweed between air-raid observation stations during World War II. She finally swings astride, and kicks off. It's a clear, breezy morning, the endless pale sky striated with wisps of white cloud, and as she pedals up the lane and onto the main road ("main road" being something of a misnomer for the single track) her first and overwhelming impression is of _space._ She didn't see it last night, because it was dark, but the countryside just goes on forever, unbroken by any human intervention or clutter. She passes a tiny, ancient Norman church tucked in a grove, and when she gets to higher ground, can see the horizon rising and opening up into the distant blue fells of Scotland (they _are_ close enough to the border here that it would be possible to end up in the wrong country if you were teetering home from a boozy night out) and can taste the cleanliness and the silence in the air, the windswept, rolling ground. A place more different from loud, noisy, crowded, traffic-choked, hot, busy, endless-city Los Angeles is difficult to imagine.

She arrives in "downtown" in another few minutes, parks the bike and locks it just in case (you can take the girl out of the big city, etc etc) and has a wander among the narrow, winding streets. Everything looks straight out of Harry Potter, with red phonebooths, secondhand bookshops, candy stores, cafes, tearooms, pubs, antique bazaars, the tourist bureau ("Welcome to Magical Wall, England") and only here and there a vestige of modern civilization: the Co-operative, the Boots, the Caffé Nero, the bank and post office. It takes Chloe a while to find an ATM, though she's sure she's getting scalped on the exchange rate and international withdrawal fees, and she browses in search of a fun gift for Trixie. She's staying with her grandmother for the three weeks Chloe is planning to be here, so heaven knows if she'll come home and find her seven-year-old daughter dolled up to accompany Penelope to an audition for another schlocky vampire romance or cut-rate sci-fi movie. That's what she gets for having no friends and no options. Well, Linda _was_ her friend, but now that she's moved here, it doesn't really count.

Once she's picked up something suitably Potterish for her kid, and since the day is still nice, Chloe decides on a whim to go out and have a look at this famous wall. It's close enough that she leaves the bike where it is, following the trail out toward the meadow where it stretches. It's apparently not part of Hadrian's Wall, which was her first guess, but something entirely its own, no different from any of the countless old stone walls that crisscross this part of the country. There's a break in it, a gap, where theoretically some enterprising sort could have a wander on through (you know, or just step over it, since it's like three feet tall – hardly going to stop the White Walkers when they invade). She walks up to it, a few yards away, and considers. It's definitely just Scotland on the other side (which, to be fair and if you've ever been to Glasgow, may certainly qualify as another world). It's not like Linda to credulously buy fairy tales; she's a trained scientist, a psychiatrist, a professional skeptic. But then again, there's something to be said for not pissing off your new neighbors as the boorish American who can't be bothered to respect your culture and your local traditions. So, since Chloe is not about to start any international incidents, she duly takes a few pictures on her phone, turns around, and heads back.

She picks up a plug adapter, since it was the one important thing she managed to forget in her packing, then bikes back to Linda's in the lengthening, golden-green spring afternoon (she's lucky it's not winter, or it would definitely be dark by now). Linda is out, presumably puttering around, and Chloe changes clothes, sends a chatty email to Trixie, and is going to attach a picture of the wall since Trixie will love that whole story, when she opens it on her phone and finds that they're gone. Not _all_ the pictures she took, just the ones of the wall. Technology fritz and all, okay, but it's still annoying. This place is stuck in the 19-frigging-40s.

Chloe bums about on the internet, which at least appears to be working, until she hears Linda come home, and heads downstairs to be sociable. They make dinner together and chat, Linda wants to know how she's doing after Dan, and Chloe stoutly insists that she's fine. Perfectly fine. It was a mutual and adult decision, there are no hard feelings, they just knew it wasn't working out, that they couldn't go on with their marriage after Palmetto and everything that happened there. They're committed to being great parents to Trixie, and will figure out how to still be coworkers at the precinct. It's fine. Did she mention it's fine?

Linda gives her a look. That is the downside of being friends with a shrink. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Chloe stabs the potato with the peeler. "I'm not really enthused about having to get back into the dating pool, but honestly, I doubt I'm going to meet anyone, and that's fine. I have my job anyway. It's better to take time, to move on properly, to give Trixie time to adjust. You know me. I'm not a jump-into-the-rebound type of girl, and anyway, what about you? Isn't there some handsome British gent somewhere who might sweep you off your feet?"

Linda coughs, cheeks going pink. "No, no. Well, there _was_ – never mind. That was a one-time thing. All right, a several-times thing, but. . . anyway, as I said, never mind. Really. It was. . . complicated."

"Oh?" Chloe teases. "What, you met Hugh Grant or something? Come on, share."

"It was not one of my more intelligent decisions, I promise." Linda looks wry. "Not long after I moved here. He was very, _very_ handsome, but, well, a total hell-raiser. I slept with him a few – well, more than a few – times, but believe me, it would never have worked, for any number of reasons. I ended it and I haven't seen him since. Or anyone. So yes, I'd say my love life is going about as well as yours, but that's all right. Things work out when they work out."

"Just promise you'll let me move in with you or something, if I'm ever in danger of adopting several cats and subscribing to knitting magazines." Chloe reaches for the masher. "I'm sure Trixie would love to visit here, but I don't know how she'd feel about leaving all her friends and her whole life behind, so. . . I suppose I'd end up staying in Los Angeles. But hey." She pauses, then shrugs. "After all, I need a man like a fish needs a bicycle, right?"

Linda laughs, assures her that it is so (though with one final look at her) and they set the table and eat. Once they've washed up and Linda's gone into the study, Chloe goes upstairs and runs a hot bath, tests it cautiously to make sure she won't broil like a chicken, then strips and climbs in with a deep sigh. She closes her eyes and luxuriates for a while, wet hair straggling down her shoulders, then opens them to find the room rather. . . brighter than it was before. People have told her she has a habit of _glowing_ when she's happy, which Chloe takes as a figure of speech: everyone glows when they're happy. But Dan claimed it was something different, like an actual white shine, something you can see and sense, that makes you feel changed. Which was a romantic thing to say at the time, sure, but which still doesn't make, you know, any sense.

Chloe stands up with a splash, gets out, and dries herself off. The wind is whistling forlornly past the eaves of the cottage, and she firmly resolves not to think about ghosts tonight. She has a fat paperback novel that she's been meaning to start, and she tucks up under the covers (there is a draft coming from _somewhere_ that she can't evade no matter how hard she tries) and cracks it open, leaning against the pillows. See. Look at her. Relaxing.

At last, when her eyes are starting to droop, she puts the book on her bedside table, gets a glass of water, and is preparing to go to sleep, when it strikes her that she can hear something that sounds like distant music. It doesn't seem to be coming from downstairs, and Linda doesn't exactly have any nearby neighbors, unless somebody is having a really loud party (this doesn't seem like the kind of place, since the pub is the only establishment that doesn't close at six PM). Chloe is curious enough to open her window and stick her head out, but since this is a dark night in the middle of nowhere, it doesn't exactly solve the mystery. She can definitely hear it, though. Sounds kind of gypsy, almost. Baroque, older. The wind is blowing in her face, and when it shifts, the music just as abruptly stops. As if you can only hear it with the right breeze.

Okay, well. This place has its quirks, for sure. This is not doing much to make her _not_ think about ghosts, but this is definitely the kind of thing that gives a place character. Chloe pulls her head in, shuts the window, and gets into bed, absently fiddling with her necklace. It's a slender silver chain with the tiniest of diamonds, and for as long as she can possibly remember, she has never taken it off. Not to sleep or shower or exercise or anything, ever. She doesn't even know why. Just that the thought of doing so gives her the kind of clammy hands and pounding heart normally reserved for the possibility of being in a bad car crash, as if it's completely and vitally important that she doesn't, that she doesn't even think of it. It's just a weird phobia, and one of the reasons she befriended Linda in the first place, seeking someone, anyone to talk to that wasn't her mother. But while Linda may have sorted out some of her other shit, she didn't make any headway on the necklace. It stays. Coping talisman or whatever words Linda used, Chloe doesn't remember. It's better than drink or drugs or cigarettes or anything else unhealthy, so hey.

Tonight, she dreams of dancing with someone. A man. All night, endlessly, to that same strange music, the way the faeries are supposed to dance you to dawn, or two hundred years from now, in their barrows under the hills. But no matter how hard she looks, she can never see his face.

* * *

**II.**

It is a week into her stay in Wall, and Chloe is just getting to the place where she might, somewhat, possibly feel anything less than wound to total explosion, which leads her to wonder if she will finally become actually relaxed and then have to embark on the whole long odyssey home the very next day. That's a depressing thought, and she tries to push it out of her head. Linda has taken her out for day trips, they've gone to the Holy Island of Lindisfarne and Bamburgh Castle and Alnwick and other scenic bits of Northumbria, and Chloe has plenty of gorgeous pictures on her camera (she keeps checking to see if _they've_ vanished, but nope, still only the wall – the technology-eating gremlins must take the legend seriously). She is also vaguely surprised to realize she doesn't miss Los Angeles at all. Well, she misses Trixie, and her familiar routines, and _sunlight_ (there's not exactly an overflowing supply of it here) but beyond that, nada. She's lived in L.A. her entire life, her dad was on the force before her, and it feels like she should be missing it more – it's her home. But she just. . . isn't.

She also has to admit that it's deeply nice not to roll out of bed, go to work, and find out who has been brutally murdered today, and she struggles with the guilt of feeling that way. She started this job because she wanted to help people, she wanted to catch killers and see that they were punished, she wanted to continue her dad's work, after he was gunned down when she was nineteen in a routine convenience-store stickup gone wrong. It's not like all the criminals of Los Angeles will suddenly go un-caught while she's on vacation; she has an entire department to cover her butt, after all. It's not like she was doing it alone. But Chloe isn't good when she's not working, just because it's the way she successfully avoids thinking about anything else. Now, with all this time off, she's just starting to realize that she may be _way_ more fucked up than she is remotely comfortable admitting, like years and years of this shit have stacked up without ever getting purged, and while it might be convenient that she is staying with a shrink, she's not going to burden Linda with an exhaustive recitation of her problems. They're not bad problems. Not ridiculous problems, not life-or-death problems. Just the problems everyone has in their lives. She just has to put on her big-girl panties, as the saying goes, and deal with it.

In any event, Linda seems to sense at least some of this, because she suggests that they go to the pub for trivia night that Saturday. Chloe is known to let her hair down a bit, rather literally, when she's had a couple drinks, and she can kick ass at Trivial Pursuit, so off they go. The pub is some charming three-hundred-year-old establishment with ceilings low enough to nearly concuss any tallish fellow wandering unwarily through, and once Chloe and Linda have staked out their table and grabbed their trivia paddles, they certainly attract a local lad or two interested in joining them. Chloe gives them a demure not-interested smile and has them step along.

The evening goes almost well, improving when she's put down a few draft ales, and by the time they hit the final question – "What cult 2000 American teen film is known for setting a dubious record by making only $1,863 in box-office release, but becoming the most-streamed title on PirateBay in the first year of that site's existence?" – Chloe is all ready to rock and roll with the answer. She shoots to her feet. "Oh yeah! _Hot Tub High School!"_

The buzzer goes off, she and Linda win the pot (which is about £50 and gift vouchers to local businesses – this _is_ Wall, not the final round of _Jeopardy)_ and everyone is slightly incredulous, especially the five-person team of fuckboys that they edged out for the prize and who probably should have known this their-damn-selves, sucks to be them. When Linda has gone out to get the car, one of said fuckboys ventures an approach. Evidently it's dawned on him. "Wait. _Hot Tub High School._ Weren't you the bird who – "

"Nope. No clue what you're talking about." Chloe flips her hair over her shoulder, pulls on her coat, and marches out, into the cool, starry night. She's feeling pretty good, all things considered. Might as well use that albatross around her neck to get something out of it, right? Her first and only starring role. Her dad never even got to see it. Got killed right as it was coming out.

Chloe has walked for several minutes before it occurs to her that it seems to be taking longer to get to the car than it did to get to the pub when they arrived. Damn, all these narrow little lanes look the same. But she's pretty sure it was this one, she wasn't going to wait around and let any more of Wall's local fauna figure out anything about her IMDB page, and Linda will probably catch her halfway. She loves nights like these, anyway. You so rarely get them in Los Angeles, with all the light pollution, and it's been. . . shit, she can't even remember how long it's been. They make her feel cleaner, lighter, like she can take a running start and leap into the soft velvet darkness and it will catch her, wrap its arms around her, lift her feet off the ground until she can fly. It's a ridiculous little-girl thing, but still.

She's walked for several more minutes after the first several when it occurs to her that she can hear music ahead – the same kind she heard the other night. Loud and lively and upbeat and swingy, the kind that makes you want to pull the elastic out of your hair (well, she's already done that) and get down on the dance floor, not that she dances. There's that strange hurdy-gurdy quality to it, like some Victorian music-hall, until she finds herself picking up the pace, her detective's instincts piqued to solve the mystery. She was pretty buzzed when she set out, but she feels, if not entirely sober, less tipsy now. Focused. Heart pitter-pattering. Excited.

The ground slopes up under her feet, wild and broken, and she breathes hard as she climbs, until she can definitely see light ahead, some kind of warm yellow glow – not electrical light, and not firelight either, something else. Stranger. That seems to be the buzzword of the evening (or at least this part of it). Then her foot skids, she gasps and clutches at a gnarled root to keep her balance, and there are earthen steps beneath her, leading down into a. . .

Chloe has no idea what it is. Village? Market? Traveling fair? Must be another Wall thing, some midnight Saturday hootenanny where local merchants turn up in cosplay or whatever. She doesn't have any other notion how to describe it, just that the night is suddenly filled with music and magic and wonder, light and color and sound. Brightly painted wooden wagons are parked to every side, and people in dresses and waistcoats and hats and cravats are selling things out of the back. Little glass flowers and silver-and-gold charms, ancient-looking swords, battered amulets, cages of rats and ravens, leather-bound books that crackle, things that sing, things that chirp, things that change shape (she'd swear) if you're looking at them out of the corner of your eye. More vendors wander with trays of roasted chestnuts or loaves of steaming bread or bowls of soup, vats of wine or something that smells dark and spicy, until Chloe can't catch her breath and can't look in every direction fast enough, entranced and delighted. Damn, why didn't Linda tell her about this? They could have planned to hit this place up with their bounteous trivia-night fortune. She's got to pick up something for Trixie from here.

Chloe veers in the direction of the nearest wagon, which is operated by a rather slovenly-looking woman in a dirty yellow apron. But she sells beautiful jewelry, even though it's probably going to be out of her price range, as well as a bit much for a seven-year-old. Chloe fingers a necklace, something she likes for herself, though it isn't as if she's really an accessories girl – her own necklace and her earring studs are as far as she ever goes. "How much for this?"

The woman eyes her. "Might be the color of your hair," she says, "though yours ain't much. Or all your memories before you were three. If they're good ones, that is."

"What?" Chloe is rather miffed at the slight on her hair. "I meant, how much in you know, pounds?"

The woman picks her teeth and stares at Chloe as if she's grown an extra head.

"Cash?" Chloe tries. "I'm sorry, I'm from America, but – "

"That necklace of yours there." The woman leans forward, poking at it. "What's it?"

"Hey!" Chloe swats at her; she doesn't appreciate the personal space invasion. "That's mine. I was just looking at your stuff, but. . . okay, have a nice night. I'll be on my way."

Joy slightly dimmed by _that_ unproductive encounter (so, that is, much the same as calling to try to cancel your cable TV) Chloe backs away from Scary Zero-Customer-Service Lady and wonders if she dares to do business with anyone else, or it's a sign that she should probably bag it for the night. If she can find her way out of here, that is, as this place is a rabbit warren and she can't remember which side she came in. She can still hear the music, closer now, and it sounds like a piano – a really good piano, or at least really good piano player. She'll go look, drop a couple quid in his hat, and then head back before Linda starts to worry.

Chloe negotiates through the crowds, wondering if the police are going to turn up to issue a noise citation if this goes on much longer or if it's an established thing, until she reaches the source of the music. It's indeed a piano, set on an open-air dais, and the guy playing it is. . . well, honestly, the only word that comes to mind is _wow._ Having seen a sufficient sample of English men by now to know that they are not inherently hot (indeed, often rather the opposite) she's almost tempted to change her conclusions, just on account of him. It's kind of annoying how perfectly he fits the tall-dark-and- _holy-hell-handsome_ trope. Just the right crisp curl on his hair and level of fashionable stubble, Victorian-style jacket and waistcoat and pleated trousers that could kill a man, _and_ he sings. She doesn't recognize the song, something jazzy, though she probably should. He has a glass of something perched atop the piano, and when he finishes, to a ripple of applause, he picks it up and tosses it down. Just. Damn.

Chloe fishes in her pocket for the tip, even as she notices that other people (not surprisingly) seem to be coming forward to talk to him. Looks like a Mafia loan shark cutting deals, the vibe she gets from those transactions. The people definitely have something they want, and he flashes that possibly literal lady-killer smile and says something in return, clandestine items occasionally change hands (she watches closely, a cop's nature to sniff out shady dealings) and she's about to step forward and ask him what exactly he's up to, before remembering that this of course is England and she has no jurisdiction. Still, it can't hurt to put a _little_ fear of God into him, just in case. Once his last customer has drifted off, she strides forward. "So, playing piano isn't all you do here, is it?"

He swivels around to stare at her, looks her up and down with no pretense of doing anything besides checking her out without a scrap of shame, and grins lasciviously. _"Well._ Good evening to you too, my dear. And what is it _you_ want?"

Of course his accent is utterly delicious. Not that that is pertinent to anything, but still. She crosses her arms and gives him a tight little smile. "Actually, I was just wondering if the laws on drug-dealing or whatever you've got going on were that different between England and the U.S., but I'm sure it's all on the up and up?"

He looks at her completely blankly, takes out a bottle, and pours another dram. "Come again?"

Chloe belatedly realizes that these are fighting words, especially to a complete stranger in some weird traveling circus at midnight, but with the opening gambit struck, she refuses to look like a coward by withdrawing. "You. Here. Your little sing-a-song-and-make-a-deal thing?"

"Ah. Yes, yes, that's exactly what I do." He takes a sip, with an obnoxiously charming little grin. "And how can I help you this evening, darling? If you find you can't possibly resist me, I do take payment in trade."

"I beg your _pardon?"_ Chloe sputters, not least because she's pretty sure he just bald-facedly asked if she'd like to jump his bones for whatever weird favor he thinks she wants, thirty seconds after meeting her. "Are the laws on public solicitation _also_ that different over here?"

"You're a tedious one, aren't you?" He finishes off the drink – either that's not as strong as it looks, or it is, and he intends to be even more sloshed than she was by the end of the night, because he's putting it down like water. "Are you sure I can't help you? Because, darling, it is apparent that you need a great _deal_ of help."

"I don't need _help."_ No matter what she was thinking this morning. God, between Scary Lady and now Casanova, she's pretty sure this fair is where all the weirdoes get to hang out and have their own party, which. . . nice of Wall to let them have it, but still. "Especially not from you."

"Where are you from?" He cocks his head like a hound on point, studying her intently. "I've never seen you before, and I would remember. Besides, you stick out like a bloody sore thumb."

" _I_ stick out?" That is plenty rich coming from him. "I'm from America."

He stares at her uncomprehendingly. "America?"

What the hell? Sure, they live up the ass-crack of nowhere, but it _is_ 2016\. Even if it fritzes, the internet is a thing – and seriously, how can you not know what America is? Chloe isn't one of those obnoxious tourists who expects everywhere in the world to speak English and cater to her every whim, but she'd think it would be a pretty basic tenet of knowledge for, you know, anyone conscious in the modern world. "California? Los Angeles?"

"Ah! Los Angeles!" He brightens. "That explains it. Knew someone else from there. All the beautiful women come from there, eh?"

This is transparently another bad chat-up line, but it's still almost effective, damn it. "And what planet are you from? London?"

"Oh, I would very much like to go there, frankly." He shuts the piano lid and turns to face her, legs jauntily crossed. "Do you think you could get me there?"

"And you couldn't. . . why?"

"Well, I'm sure plenty of people would tell me that it doesn't really exist, does it?" Tall-Dark-and-Dumb gives her that winning grin. It is very winning, fuck it. "But me, for once, I'll go ahead and have faith that it does. Not usually my thing, faith, but you, you've been there, haven't you? So I was right."

This night is getting weirder by the instant. "I'm. . . I'm sorry, _who_ are you?"

"Name's Lucifer." He pulls a chased-silver case out of his jacket pocket, removes a cigarette that looks distinctly hand-rolled, and an antique lighter that takes a few clicks to produce a spark. He touches it to the end and takes a luxuriant drag. "Lucifer Morningstar."

"Lucifer Morningstar?" She laughs incredulously. "Wow, you must have had a _great_ time at school. So were your parents cultists, or really into Wicca, or. . .?"

"My parents were the king and queen of Stormhold." He regards her coolly through the haze of smoke. "My father was a distant and unloving berk, Mum was. . . well, Mum, and my brothers are a lot of squabbling, power-hungry imbeciles, who all want the throne for themselves. I wasn't interested in participating in the perennial pastime of fratricide, so I left them bloody to it. Not much choice, really, after I got chucked out. You can blame Dad for that. I can assure you, I do."

"Stormhold? What's that, in Scotland?"

"Are you sure you're all right, darling? You're not making a lick of sense."

" _I'm_ the one not making sense?"

"Yes, indeed." He takes another drag on the cigarette, then offers it to her, as if it will help to take a hit off his doobie. "Need to relax badly, don't you?"

"I'm totally relaxed."

"Yes, I can see that, unless you meant you're not. Sure you don't want to come home with me? You'll be _extremely_ relaxed once I'm done."

For a moment, despite how utterly, resoundingly, unapologetically, impossibly inappropriate this guy _(Lucifer,_ seriously?) is, a part of Chloe can't help but be _slightly_ flattered at his obvious interest, before she catches herself. She is not still nineteen years old, thank God, and certainly not some doe-eyed ingénue to get all weak in the knees because an attractive guy made a pass at her. "Does that line ever actually work?"

"Yes, in fact. You're being quite unusually stubborn." His dark brows crease in befuddlement. "You _are_ a human female, aren't you? They usually find me irresistible."

"What are you, a. . . Stormholder? Martian?"

"Well, Mum was a Lilim, which Dad found out rather too late. That accounted for the wings, and other bits. And of course there's plenty of fae and star and whatever-else blood mixed up in the family tree, so I'm not sure what you'd call me, exactly." He sounds surprised, as if it's the first time it has ever occurred to him. "But a black sheep by any other name, eh?"

"How can you not know what London is, but be familiar with Shakespeare?

"Shakespeare?" He blinks. "As in Captain Shakespeare, the fearsome airship pilot? Well, I say fearsome, though the stories I could tell you about _that_ one – "

"No! William Shakespeare! Famous English playwright?"

"Never heard of him. Probably ripped off the name." Lucifer Morningstar takes a few more drags on his cigarette, then stubs it out. "Well, I personally don't think you should be wandering alone at night in your clearly befuddled state – I don't believe you've given me the delight of an introduction to such a charming but addled young lady, have you?"

"Chloe." She hesitates. "Decker. I'm a – a detective." Which is a stupid thing to say, but he seems to be finding her funny, and it just slipped out. At least it's a glancing explanation as to why she's been so anal with him. She doesn't even know why.

"De-tect-ive?" He sounds it out with intent attention, like a foreign word he wants to memorise. "And what do you do? Skulk about in pursuit of anyone who might be engaged in a potential act of vice, and rush in to put a stop to it in a blaze of righteous glory?"

"I – well, if you count being a cop a blaze of glory, that's. . . not too far off, I suppose. I investigate murders, though. So the vice is usually well over by the time I get there."

"Investigate murders?" He looks up at her with the expression of a puppy that has just heard its owner get the leash to take it out for a walk. "Now that sounds absolutely thrilling. You really must let me come along."

"No way in hell, buddy." Chloe, despite herself, is almost enjoying this ludicrous conversation with this insanely handsome piano-playing crazy man named Lucifer. "Solving homicides is not a spectator sport."

"Spectator sport?" He sounds wounded. "I assure you, I wouldn't be dead weight. I'm very useful. And talented. Particularly with my tongue, but there are other arenas."

"You don't get out much, do you? Aside from Storm. . . hold."

"Oh, I left there eons ago." He attempts a shrug. "Over it, really. Entirely overrated. Now, if you're going to persist in breaking my. . . heart, can I at least walk you home?"

Chloe is about to turn him down, but it _is_ dark, and she did get lost coming out of the pub, and he doesn't give off an axe-murderer vibe, at least, unless her female intuition about guys is _way_ off. Eccentric and blithely oblivious and babbling nonsense, sure, but not dangerous. Maybe she should be scared of him, but she isn't. Might as well make sure he leaves the premises tidily. How long has she been here, anyway? She can't really remember.

"Fine," she says. "Just back to town, though."

He springs up with much élan, and grabs his jacket from the bench. He's practically a foot taller than her, long and lean, and the unwelcome thought occurs from nowhere that she could tuck her head directly under his chin. Not that she'd ever want to do that, of course. He's never been rejected by a woman in his life, as far as she can tell – and to be honest, that face and smolder and puppy-dog eyes and oddly adorable ignorance of basically anything apparently works really well for him, though she's not sure why _nobody_ has turned down a total idiot himbo who doesn't even know what America is or if London is real. Maybe they feel sorry for him and decide to give him private lessons. Yeah. That's probably it.

Lucifer trots at her side as they leave the market, closer than you'd normally walk next to someone you met five (or however many) minutes ago, even if you openly fessed up that you were trying to score for the night. She'd think he was trying to creep on her, if not for the fact that he doesn't seem to realize he's doing it, and that she. . . kind of likes having him there. For no earthly reason she could possibly explain. They climb up the muddy steps, he gives her a gentlemanly hand which she instinctively takes, and skid down the wet ground on the far side. Once they recover their balance, she quickly pulls away. "I've got it, thanks."

He gives her that amused look of his, as they walk for another few minutes, the path tilts down again, and to her considerable surprise, Chloe sees the wall in front of her. That one, obviously, since there's only one around here. She didn't even realize she was anywhere near it, and it occurs to her suddenly that it looks different. That she is. . . on the other side.

Oh _shit._ The Wallians or Walloons or whatever they're called are going to be very disappointed in her, even if she was tipsy and crossed by accident. Probably make her return that whopping £50 trivia night jackpot and those precious Poundworld coupons (but really, if everything already costs £1, how can you even _have_ Poundworld coupons?) But hey, maybe this explains the funny farm, if it's just a matter of being too embarrassed to have the lunatics out in public, and she turns around. "Hey, don't tell anyone about this, all right? I don't want to cause an – "

He's not there. The wind is scraping across the empty moorland. It's utterly dark and silent. There's no sign that anything, much less that entire expansive fair, was ever anywhere.

What the _hell._

Chloe stands there staring for a moment longer, rubs a hand over her eyes, shakes her head, pulls her jacket tighter, decides to get moving before Linda calls in the helicopters, and runs.

* * *

**III.**

Chloe wakes up the next morning, slightly dirty and grimy and grass-stained with a faint headache, but otherwise entirely normal, completely convinced (quite naturally and understandably) that _holy shit,_ last night was a strange and highly colored dream. At least Linda hadn't called in the RAF – in fact, she doesn't seem to have noticed that Chloe was missing at all. When Chloe let herself into the cottage at stupid o'clock in the morning, everything looked normal, Linda's car was parked in the driveway, and when Chloe opened her door to check, she was fast asleep. No wonder by the time Chloe wakes up herself, she has safely relegated it to the realm of drinking stories that will be hard to top. You know, if she did drinking stories, or went out with the guys to the Paddock bar. That wasn't her thing before, and it's become even more a no-go after Malcolm.

She gets up, showers for twenty minutes to get the residue of her midnight fever dream off, and heads downstairs for breakfast. "Hey, Linda. So, by any chance, did you, um, did you not hear me come in last night?"

Linda gives her a strange look. "Why? Were you out?"

"I just meant, after you left the pub to get the car, I left and went out as well and looked for you, but I must have gotten a little turned around, and it took me a while to find my way back, and I thought you might be worried." Chloe tries to keep her tone casual. "That's all."

Linda gives her an even stranger look. "I got in the car and waited for you, then I saw you walking down the road back to the house, so I pulled up and asked if you wanted a ride. But you didn't answer, and since it was a nice night and it's very safe to walk around here, I thought you just wanted to enjoy it. I drove home and saw a light on in your window, so I thought nothing else of it and went to bed. Are you saying. . .?"

"I. . . well, that's weird, but then again, last night was. . . last night was _very_ weird. I had the hell of a dream, or hangover, or whatever. You're gonna laugh at me, but. . ." With that, Chloe spills the whole sordid saga of her midnight venture to Crazy Town, expecting Linda to chuckle and let her know that she now has a Wall tall tale of her very own. But instead, her friend is looking back at her with a slightly furrowed brow, quite serious and not at all laughing it up, until Chloe trails off. "Wait. What the hell. Are you – come on, Linda, the whole thing, and in what realm would I actually meet a guy named Lucifer Morningstar who – "

"Lucifer?" Linda's look breaks records for weirdness. "You met _Lucifer?"_

"Wha – ?" Chloe opens and shuts her mouth like a goldfish, completely confounded. "You – you _know_ that guy? How? Lucifer, as in figment of my imagination Lucifer? You – how do you – "

As she stares at Linda's face, she suddenly puts it together. "Oh my _God_. That story you were telling me the other day, about the handsome guy you slept with but it would never work – what. No. _Him?_ That _idiot?_ Linda, there's no way you fell for his 'I don't know what America is!' adorable-dumb-beefcake shtick! You're too smart for that!"

"I. . ." Linda's cheeks are going a rather fetching shade of pink. "I don't recall that he ever asked me about America, actually."

"Oh my God." Chloe can't be hearing this. "So what, where do they keep him during the day, Mr. Rochester's attic? Just let him out to wander around at night? He's – he's actually a real person? Is this like the neighborhood eccentric that you all politely agree not to mention, because English manners or something? I don't – "

"Chloe." Linda takes pity on her and hands her a cup of tea. "Do you remember what I said about the wall and. . . where it goes?"

"What, that it. . ." Chloe takes a sip. "Seriously, you're sticking with that story? That I, in a drunken haze which, I swear, was not _that_ drunken, accidentally wandered out of England and into the parallel world that just happens to exist on the other side of this random rinkidink wall, which is why I met a guy whose parents named him Lucifer with a straight face, doesn't know what America is, claims to be from a place called the kingdom of Stormhold _,_ and I can't even remember all the other crazy shit he spouted off? No, sorry. I'll accept the guy might be real, or at least we shared some sort of highly detailed hallucination or metaphor, but, yeah. No."

Linda blows on her own tea with a wry smile. "Exactly everything I said."

"Come on, Linda." Chloe doesn't know why she's putting so much effort into arguing that whatever happened last night did not in fact happen, except that the alternative is that she is in fact crazy, and needs to book a session ASAP with _someone_ when she gets back to L.A., if she doesn't want to ask Linda to do some pro bono emergency intervention right here. "You don't _believe_ him."

"I didn't for a long time, no. And I broke off our. . . arrangement before I found out the truth." Linda reaches for the marmalade. "It rattled me, you can believe that. But he. . . Lucifer, he's. . . well. He has issues, but – "

"Yeah, I gathered that. More like subscriptions."

Linda gives her another look. "He wanted someone to talk to, and I. . .well, I was lonely, and we both had things to offer each other. As I said, it's not one of the better – or more ethical – decisions I ever made, but he just. . . he did something to me, and. . ." She considers. "Anyway, I shouldn't be telling you too much, but yes, he's real, and for what it's worth, I believe that the place, the realm that he comes from – and what goes on there – is real too. Do some research into the history of Wall. There's a book about Dunstan and Tristan Thorn, a father and son who lived here in the 1850s – I have it, actually. It's a lot larger than just you and I, and what we think."

"Linda, are you okay?" Chloe is genuinely concerned about her, as if Linda has cracked up and gone native after five years exposed to whatever they put in the water around here – aren't there case studies about this, entire towns going crazy and seeing things and then it turns out to be explained by some corporation polluting the groundswell with their chemicals? If that has been going on here this long, you'd think someone would have looked into it by now. "If for argument's sake, you could actually get into another world from here, wouldn't there be, I don't know, guards? Barbed wire, keep-out signs? They haven't brought British Mulder and Scully to investigate? Someone should have Area 51'd the crap out of the place."

"Wall is a. . . hidden jewel, and the people here like to keep it that way. Nobody's going to talk to the government about it, and like you, half of them don't even believe in it but won't disturb the wall just in case. I think the most sophisticated security system they ever put up was an old man with a stick. We leave them alone, they leave us alone. And when you're talking about a place like that, it's for the best."

"A place like that. What. . . _magical?"_

"As I said, I believe that it's real, and that there are powers and forces there that we aren't prepared to deal with, and that we don't need to create any extra trouble for ourselves." Linda cuts her toast. "I didn't move to Wall looking to get mixed up in it. I honestly thought, like you, that it was just a fun story to add some local color. But, well. Here I am."

"Yeah, here you are," Chloe says slowly. She doesn't know whether to be almost embarrassed on Linda's behalf, like you discovered someone you respect and admire being suckered into fake fad diet pills, or reading _The Secret,_ or putting actual, serious stock in the horoscope in the back of the newspaper. "Linda, I mean. . . obviously you met a real guy, and it even seems to be the one I met, and believe me, I get why it wouldn't have worked, but you. . . are you okay?"

"What? Do you think I cracked up and invented this story after things went bad between us, and I needed to rationalize it to myself?" Linda gives her a probing look. "As I said, it wasn't easy for me to accept either. But if you want to know more – "

"The truth is out there?" Chloe puts on her best YouTube-vlogger _Secrets of the UFOs_ voice, finishes her tea, and pushes her chair back. "I think I am going to go for a walk, actually. Maybe go into town and pick up one of those pay-as-you-go phones, so I can call if this happens again. I'll see you later, Linda."

"See you." Linda nods at her. "Take care, all right?"

Chloe isn't sure why she's the one that needs saying this to, when she's obviously the only non-crazy one in this whole mess, but she nods, pulls on her jacket and boots, grabs her bag and umbrella (key rule of living in England: always bring the umbrella) and leaves the house. It's a misty, moisty morning, windy is the weather, and her hair whips in her face as she makes her way into town. Once she has popped by Carphone Warehouse to pick up a cheap little flip phone that would have been very chic in 2005, she tests that it works, reminds herself that this is a very bad idea, and heads out. You know exactly where.

She surveys the wall up and down, removes the phone, and snaps several more pictures, daring the gremlins to delete them again. She is a detective, after all. Mysteries get her attention, captivate her imagination, and it's certainly not like she hasn't had people claim supernatural interference before, in an effort to dodge blame for whatever they themselves actually did. Yeah, sure, the evil voices made you do it. That's schizophrenia, not a demon. It's chemical. Treatable with medication, controllable. To say nothing of all the other crazy shit they try to pull.

Chloe takes a few more pictures, paces up and down the wall, reaches out to gingerly put her hand on the stone (is she going to get sucked back into the past and meet a red-haired kilt-wearing Scot – or rather, black-haired piano-playing nutcase – now?) She's not sucked anywhere. The hill beyond is empty. She looks in every direction once more, satisfies herself that nobody saw her come out here, turns around, and –

She almost crashes into him. He's standing close behind her, dressed in another old-fashioned black suit, waistcoat, cravat, boots, and silk shirt, apparently impervious to the continuing mist, and he's grinning like a demented jack-o-lantern. "Detective! Good morning to you too!"

"What did – _where_ did – " Chloe presses a hand to her chest, because it feels like her heart is about to leap out of it, as she stumbles backwards, nerves still jangling like a broken harp. "What the _hell!_ Why are you – why are you even _here?"_

"Came looking for you, of course." Lucifer Morningstar beams at her, adjusting his cufflinks. He wears a ring on the middle finger of his right hand, set with a strange dark stone that seems to take in light. "Remember what I said, how I wanted to sod off and go investigate crimes or whatever you do in your fascinating life? Well, here I am!"

"Are you – what. No, _no,_ you are not coming back to Los Angeles with me! I'm pretty sure there are rules against felons leaving the country on the sly!" Chloe grabs him by the arm, spins him around (which he appears to enjoy inordinately) and marches him up to the wall. "There's the door. Time to go back to. . . wherever you're from, buddy. Before you get me into any more trouble."

"I've gotten you into trouble?" He sounds thrilled. "Do tell."

"No," Chloe grunts, pushing him up toward the break in the wall – where he promptly digs in his expensively leather-clad heels. For a crazy man, he clearly is not short on cash. "Time to go."

"Goodness gracious, you _are_ a stubborn one, aren't you?" He twists his head around to look at her with a fascinated grin. "But no, you're absolutely right. Can't go without Maze."

"Maze? You're bringing your – what, garden topiary too?"

"No, Maze, as in my demon. Left with me from Stormhold, bad form to bugger off and leave her behind here. So come on, Detective, we'll go fetch her and then we can trot along." Lucifer steps over the break in the wall, turns, and holds out his hand to her. "Coming?"

"I – no." Chloe shoves her own hands in her pockets, to avoid her absurd momentary urge to take it. "I'm good. You can go."

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're not the least bit curious about all this. The possibility. The danger. I found my way into England, I'm sure you can find your way into Faerie." His eyes are dark and teasing, but there's an intensity in them that takes her aback. "What's to lose?"

"I _have_ read books," Chloe says. "And seen movies. I know that's a terrible idea."

"Well, I'm not about to crack you over the head and drag you off, but I _do_ think you're curious." He continues to regard her. "Really, you're out here by yourself because you don't have the slightest interest on what might be on the other side? Make you a deal then, eh? You come with me, you don't see anything that intrigues you, and you go. But if you do, well. . . I get something out of it then, don't I?"

"What? And don't think you count as the intriguing thing I'm supposed to see, because you don't. And I'm not sleeping with you, by the way. Ever."

"Touchy, touchy." He doesn't seem put out by this, or so wounded in his masculinity that he's about to crumble like a house of cards. In fact, the more she seems totally immune to what must be his usual bag of tricks for pulling women, the more interested he seems to get – which, considering she's trying to get rid of him, is aggravating. Still, though. Skeptic while she might be and very much is, she knows she'll kick herself forever if she doesn't look at least once. She doesn't want to be the crusty old PI, or whatever becomes of detectives once they're farmed out to pasture, forever reminiscing about The Case That Got Away. And she, obviously, is going to keep her mouth shut about it, as she is no more keen to have the government (or even less savory types) up her ass than anyone else. Besides, if he _is_ just a harmless crazy man, she's doing a public service in guiding him gently back to his nice padded cell. And if not. . .

Chloe pushes that thought aside. Gives Lucifer a coy, slightly malicious little smile, ignores his still-offered hand, and steps over onto his side of the wall.

If she was expecting a bang or a flash of light (she wasn't, really) she's disappointed. Nothing tangibly or visibly changes. She doesn't turn to dust or anything. Kind of anticlimactic.

"Right," she says. "I'll walk you home, just since you did it for me last night. Then maybe you can find some nice books about London and study up. Let's go."

Lucifer gambols after her like an overeager sheepdog as they start to walk. And walk, and walk. Chloe knows it wasn't far from here to the market, but after they've hiked for a while with no sign of it, she says, "I thought you lived nearby. Are we getting to about where the whole shebang was last night, or what?"

"Oh, not even close, really." Lucifer shrugs. "When the Faerie Market is open, you can stumble into it easily from wherever you are, and then popped back out when you leave. I always do rip-roaring business there, but it's certainly not where I live, no."

"Right. Forgot who I was talking to."

"You're in my world now, Detective. You have to play by my rules."

"We'll see about that." Chloe can feel a stitch coming on. God, it has been a long time since she worked out on a regular basis, when she has enough to handle with, you know, regular work. "Is it much further?"

"Well, I do have a Babylon candle, we could use that. Quite rare, those things, but the Lightbringer always knows where to get his hands on one."

"I'm sorry, what? How does a candle help us?"

"You've never traveled by candlelight before?"

"Do I look like someone who's traveled by candlelight before?"

"No." Lucifer surveys her up and down and licks his lips. "Quite a number of other appealing things, yes, but not that. Very well. Come over here, grab onto me, and – this is very important – don't think of anything or anywhere at all. Got it?"

"Why shouldn't I – "

"Stop asking all your bloody questions for two seconds, and maybe you'll find out, eh?"

Chloe wants to inform him that it's her _job_ to ask questions, thank you very much, and if he uses this as an opportunity to feel her up on the sly, she's going to slap him right in the smug scruffy face. Still, she goes over and waits as Lucifer fishes something out of his jacket pocket: a stubby black candle engraved with the requisite spooky and esoteric symbols, half-burned. At his nod, she dubiously puts her arms around his waist, as he removes his antique cigarette lighter, strikes a spark, says, "Right then, Detective, no thinking at all, unless it's about how utterly irresistible I am – " and touches it to the end of the candle.

The next instant – Chloe doesn't even know how to describe what happens. Just that it's like she was standing in the pages of a book, and then someone violently slammed it shut and opened it up again to deposit her, rather flattened and dizzy and dazed, in an entirely new part of the story. The rugged English moorland they were traipsing over has completely vanished, and as the world folds back into place around her, she sees a sprawling, thick, twisted black forest lying in one direction, huge, sharp, Himalaya-sized mountains rising into a wall of cloud in the other, and their immediate surroundings looking like Ye Olde Medieval Village – in fact, a bit like Wall itself, but to the nth degree. As she is still staring with jaw sagging, Lucifer looks down at her with a sly grin, tucks the candle (now barely more than a stump) back into his jacket, and says with considerable satisfaction, "Candlelight."

"Any chance I can borrow one of those to get back to L.A.?" Chloe says weakly. "That's a hell of a lot easier than what I had to go through to get here. I mean, there."

"Wouldn't work on your side, unfortunately." Lucifer's grin turns into a smirk. "And you can let go of me now, Detective. Unless of course you've realized that – "

"Oh, shut up." Cheeks heating, Chloe pries her arms off his waist and steps away. She follows him down the narrow, muddy lane to a particularly large and impressive-looking building at the end, very gabled and half-timbered and sharp-roofed, which has a wooden sign swinging out front, done in elaborate gothic lettering. _LUX._

Lucifer opens the door for her, Chloe ducks in, and then stops short, feeling distinctly like Luke Skywalker walking into the cantina in Mos Eisley. The place is full of what looks like an entire convention of Dungeons and Dragons players in full costume, only half of them appear to be human, and they're drinking things in colors and combinations she's never seen. The light from the antlered chandeliers is low and witchy, the organ at the back has great pipes made out of what looks like whale ivory, and the bar seems to be hewn from the roots of a giant, twisting tree. The woman pouring drinks behind it looks like an Amazon, sleek and dark and beautiful and dangerous, dressed head to toe in some kind of risqué leather catsuit. At Lucifer's entrance, she glances up, gives him a sour look – and then catches sight of his visitor. The expression on her face, if Chloe saw it from anyone she was interrogating at the station or even just informally questioning at the scene, would make her calculate exactly how long it would take to draw her service weapon, and whether she might have to use it.

"Carry on, everyone," Lucifer announces, strolling without a care in the world right into the middle of all this. "Nothing to see here."

Slowly, the _World of Warcraft_ mega-fans turn back to their drinks, not without lingering looks at Chloe. She's the one out of place here in her Earth clothes, though she is _not_ slapping on a corset and hoopskirt, or whatever else, in the name of fitting in. They make their way to the bar, where Lucifer orders, "Pour my new friend a drink, Maze. On the house."

"Your _friend?"_ This must be the aforementioned "demon," then. She is very unimpressed. "What, you've slept with all the women on this side of the wall, so you had to go into _their_ world to find one you hadn't?"

"Excuse me," Chloe says. "I'm not sleeping with him, trust me. _Ever."_

"Yes, she's quite adamant about that, alas. Still. Drink."

Maze eyes them. Chloe isn't sure she would trust her not to spit in it, or worse. "Lucifer, I've told you what I think about your ridiculous fascination with trying to sneak into the human world. And now you're _bringing_ one of them here? Take her back."

"Oh, I mean to. But you and I are going with her, to a wonderful place called Los Angeles." Lucifer is as excited as a kid on Halloween, waiting for treats. "To solve _crimes."_

Maze looks at him as if she cannot believe that he can be this stupid and still talking. Chloe feels herself warming up to her. "No."

"Come on, Mazikeen. You know you'd never let me go alone."

"No."

"Remember, you left Stormhold with me to – "

"I'm well aware of what I did, Lucifer." Maze turns away, swiping a cloth viciously down the already immaculately clean bar. "But while you were out having your little human joyride this morning, someone came by looking for you. Someone's been killed. They thought you might know something about it."

Lucifer's giddy expression slips a notch, even as Chloe feels her ears automatically prick up. He frowns. "What? Killed? Who?"

Maze looks back at him unreadably. "Delilah."

This name, obviously, means nothing to Chloe, but it does to Lucifer. His face crumbles, he loses the irritatingly-smug-and-charming lothario act for the first time in their brief and regrettable acquaintance, and he looks genuinely stunned. "What? _Delilah?_ Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Maze pauses. "Sorry."

Lucifer says nothing, turning away, as Maze seemingly takes pity on him, pours him something, and he grabs the glass and knocks it back without looking. Chloe edges up next to him; this is sadly familiar territory for her, after all. "Hey," she says awkwardly. "I'm sorry about your. . . friend?" Knowing him, probably something quite a bit earthier than that, but a woman has been killed. She can be respectful.

"Yes, actually. My friend. I started her off with a few singing ventures here." Lucifer waves a hand at this place – Lux, apparently. "She was quite in demand for important people and their parties, for a while. But it never lasts, does it?"

"So she was. . . a singer?" Chloe can feel investigative gears starting to click in her brain, despite herself. "Is there any reason you can think of why someone might want to kill her?"

Overhearing this, Maze gives her a scathing look. "You ask a lot of nosy questions, earthling. How do we know you didn't do it?"

"It's my job." Chloe looks back at her coolly. "I'm a homicide detective. I literally figure out who killed people and why."

Maze snorts. "Your kind must need that a lot."

"As compared to whatever you two think you are? If you want me to sort out who might have killed this Delilah and why, I can certainly lend a hand. But if you don't need my human help – "

"I want to know," Lucifer says abruptly, wheeling around. _"I_ want to know why. If the detective is willing to offer her professional services, then you, Maze, don't get to scare her off, or for that matter, anything else. Do I make myself clear?"

Maze eyes him balefully. "Sure," she says, but her gaze flickers sidelong to Chloe, with an unmistakable promise that she'd better watch her back. "Got it."

That is how, not long later, Chloe finds herself in the familiar but completely bizarre situation of arriving at the sleazy boarding house where Delilah was staying, heading up the dark and creaky stairs to the shabby room at the top, and launching into the normal steps of an investigation – clearing the scene, looking for evidence, assessing potential witnesses. All of which is quite hard to do without modern scientific equipment, as you can't dust for prints or try to collect DNA, and which seems either baffling or amusing to everyone around her. Delilah's body itself is set on a chaise, covered with a bloody sheet, and after getting a funny look when she asks if anyone has any gloves, Chloe approaches, picks it up gingerly, and folds it back.

At that, she grimaces. She's seen some pretty gnarly things, but it's still a bit of a kick in the pants now and then, and it looks as if either the monster from _Alien_ burst out of Delilah's chest, or someone literally, physically tried to rip her heart out. Her ribcage is practically turned inside out, and Chloe drops the sheet hurriedly, thinking that Lucifer probably doesn't need to see his friend like this. But when she turns around, she sees by the expression on his face that it's too late. He saw.

"I, ah." She can guess at motives and methods and everything else back in her world, but here, it's throwing darts in the dark, blindfolded. "Did Delilah, I don't know, have someone she owed money to? Someone stiff her after a performance? Is there a cult around here that's big into human sacrifice and heart-tearing?"

"Not that I am aware of, no," Lucifer says slowly. But it's clear that he might have thought of something, just for a second, before he shakes it away. "Well? Do you know who did it?"

"It doesn't work that way. I can't just look at someone and get a reading on their murderer. Trust me, my job would be a lot easier if I could." Chloe supposes it's useless asking if they have any hand sanitizer. If this is the state of things in Faerie, she almost can't blame Lucifer for wanting to escape to the modern world, magic or not. (And there's probably a scientific explanation for that, anyway.) "And if I do find who did it, do you guys have anything like a court system, or is this still a lop-the-head-off-with-Ned-Stark's-sword kind of place? Do I just – "

"You find who did it so I can punish them!" Lucifer's face is downright terrifying, his eyes burning, in the low light, almost red. "That's what's going to happen!"

"No. No, that is not what is going to happen." Chloe stands her ground, chin tilted back to stare unflinchingly at him. "I know what you said about your world, your rules, but if you want my help on this, you play by _my_ rules. I'm willing to track down Delilah's killer, but I'm not then handing them over for you to go all vigilante-justice on them. I'm sure there's a sheriff or something around here. We'll let them do whatever they do. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

After a long, tenuous moment, Lucifer nods stiffly. Some of the hellacious glow recedes from his eyes. "Fine. As you wish."

"Good." Chloe rubs her hands on her jeans. "I'll need to question whoever else is staying here, the owner of the place, everyone like that. If you really want to solve crimes, well, here's your chance. Help me find them."

It takes a while, but they manage to collar a preliminary lineup, and Chloe is starting her usual procedure when Lucifer leans over, does something else weird with his eyes, asks what they _really_ want, and gets them to fess up exactly that, like pushing a button that says Information Please. Chloe doesn't know if it's hypnosis or psychological suggestion or what, but it does seem to work, and she catches herself thinking that it _would_ be useful to have him doing that for her on the LAPD. Unfortunately, however, it doesn't lead them anywhere constructive. Nobody seems to have any reason to viciously kill and dismember this world's version of a has-been club singer, and they finally return to Lux late that evening without any break in the case. It's only then when Chloe remembers that she has spent an entire day in – she's not calling it Faerie, but whatever this is – and that after promising Linda she wasn't going anywhere near any of this, now look where she is, literally. "Oh God. Is it like, two hundred years in the future back on my side? Have I been missing for the entire lifetime and then some of anyone who ever – "

"Calm down, Detective. Yes, Faerie time used to run much slower than Earth time, but now, what with all your machinery and technology and stupid bloody wars and politics almost stomping us out, they're just about equalized. It hasn't been any longer there than it has here."

Chloe breathes out, slightly. "Yes, but Linda – "

"Linda? As in _Doctor_ Linda? Martin?"

"Yes. I know about you two."

"Ah, well, that explains a great deal. But if that's the case, I can send a message to her about where you are, and that I will be borrowing you for a few days until we crack this Delilah business. My word is my bond, Detective, and I am no liar. I promised to take you home when this is done, and I will."

Chloe searches his face for a long moment. She vaguely remembers some legend about how the Fair Folk can't lie, although she doesn't know if it's applicable in this case, and they're certainly capable of twisting and shadowing the truth – but once again, she doesn't get that sense from him. As if he _could_ lie to her, the same as anyone, but is consciously choosing and committing not to. At last, she nods. "Okay," she says quietly. "I'll hold you to that. Send the message."

While he's doing that, she takes a seat at the tree-bar, despite the copious cold side-eye from Maze, and waits until he returns. At a pointed glance from him, Maze looks further exasperated, but pours them a drink apiece, sliding them over the counter. "You two have a special day out on your little – whatever you think you're doing?"

"Bloody frustrating, more like." Lucifer reaches for the bottle, as he's clearly planning on needing refills. "Now toddle off and bother someone else, Mazikeen."

With one more unfriendly stare, Maze does so, as Chloe wonders if she's up to trying whatever exactly is in this glass. "She's what. . . your personal concierge?"

Lucifer gives her a puzzled look, unfamiliar with the word. "She works for me, yes. Used to have another, but I lost contact with Crowley a while ago. Think he may have farted off to your England, actually. Had a boring do-gooder friend, terrible influence on him, and he was prone to cocking things up miserably, especially very important ones. I'm well shut of him, honestly."

"Great, so there's another one of you running around in my world?" Refusing to back down from the challenge, Chloe raises the glass to her lips, takes a sip, and feels for ten seconds as if she's been hit by lightning, frying up and down her body, until it resolves into a deep burning ball in the pit of her stomach, she's breathing as if she's been chased by a train, and Lucifer is looking at her with indescribable smugness, the ass. When she is once more able to form coherent sentences, she wheezes, "Jesus, what _is_ that stuff? Jet fuel? No wait, you don't have jets."

"Oh, just our local," Lucifer says airily. "Can't handle it, can you?"

"You bet your life I can." Chloe wipes her forehead clandestinely. "So what – the people of Wall have fairytales about this world, and you have fairytales about England? Is that how it works? Some people on my side believe in this place and some don't, and some people on your side believe in Earth and some don't?"

"I suppose." Lucifer shrugs. "I don't spend a great deal of time thinking about other people."

"Yeah, I kind of get that impression." Chloe chances a second sip. This one is mellower and sweeter, like fire and honey, and she feels it all the way down to her cold, cold toes. Déclassé as it might be to go prying into his life story when they've only met forty-eight hours ago and most of that has her been trying to get him out of her hair as fast as possible, she's still curious. "So. . . I'm sorry, this is probably none of my business, why would your parents name you Lucifer? Does it mean something different here than it does for us?"

"Oh?" He turns his glass, considering her. "What does it mean for you?"

"It just. . . has a certain connotation." Chloe chooses her words carefully. From what she's seen, in fact, it's entirely fitting. "Of, let's say, a rebel, a loner, a disaffected son. Someone who left their home a long time ago, on very bad terms, and has been fighting it, and everything it stands for, ever since."

"Well then. No quarrels with that." His eyes are distant. "Used to be an old and honorable Stormholder name, actually, but I've done with it what I do with everything else. Not that that's bloody surprising."

"You said something about brothers." Chloe glances at him. "A lot of them?"

"Far too many. As I said, imbeciles. Amenadiel, Michael, Uriel, Sariel, Raphael, and Barachiel – oh, and two sisters. Gabriel and Azrael. Got out long ago, wisely."

Chloe starts slightly, even as this seems to confirm her hypothesis. "Those names," she says. "It's. . . well, they would be familiar in my world. If we're going with the theory that we're just stories to each other, you and your siblings might have influenced some pretty famous ones that I know of." She wants to remark that _Lucifer_ doesn't seem to go with those names, but she can tell when there's something she shouldn't dig at. He's powerful and strange enough, if someone met him or one of the others a long time ago. . . and he said something about wings. That might make anyone come back with a garbled tale of angels. "Do beings from here – let's say for the sake of argument, gods – ever just decide to, I don't know, go wandering on my side?"

"What, have you met Mr. Wednesday? Creepy bloke with a raven on his shoulder? Stay well away from him, that's my advice."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Lucifer throws back his own drink and tops up. "But all this talk of my family, Detective, don't I then get to ask about yours? Just as much a disappointment, I take it?"

"It's. . . complicated." Chloe wants to tell him it's none of his business, but then again, so was what she was just asking him. "My dad was a cop before me, he was killed, my mom's an actress. I do what I do because of him, and with her, I. . . I don't know how to explain it."

"And are you always this disinterested in hopeful gentlemen, or just me?"

"First, you're not nearly as charming as you think you are. Second, I literally finalized my divorce two days before I got on the plane to England. Forgive me if I'm not falling all over myself to swoon into your waiting arms, or anything like that."

"No, I'm exactly as charming as I think I am, but never mind that." Lucifer cocks his head, regarding her. "Divorce? Does that mean what I guess it does?"

"Probably." Chloe takes another few sips, for moral support. She's almost started to enjoy the burn. With that, not meaning to, she finds herself telling him about Dan and Palmetto Street and Malcolm, the way it transpired that she was right all along, that Dan strung her out and gaslit her and let her think she was crazy, and that while he finally came clean, it was too late to save their already rocky marriage. That they made an adult decision to always be there for Trixie, but that it was best to cut the cord. She realizes at the end that this is probably far, _far_ more than Lucifer ever wanted to know about anyone, and stops. "I'm sorry," she mutters. "I just. . . I haven't. . . not even with Linda, I just. . . I haven't talked about it."

"I see." Lucifer considers her. "You have a child?"

"Yeah, as I said, a daughter. She's seven. Why, do you?"

" _No,_ thankfully." Lucifer shudders. "Children are nasty, horrible, needy little beasts. Can't imagine what anyone gets out of them. Yours, though," he recovers belatedly, seeing her eyeing him coldly. "I'm sure yours isn't too bad. Nothing to show off, perhaps, but nothing to be too embarrassed about either."

"Do you have any idea how dickish you sound?" Chloe is almost truly curious. "Do people just – do what you want, or you zap them with your tell-me-what-you-desire superpower, or do you really not care what anyone thinks of you? Are the basic rules of polite society really so different in this place that you can be such a jerk with no repercussions?"

Lucifer looks surprised. "Am I supposed to? Care, that is?"

"Most normal people do." Chloe considers. "Not that you qualify in any sense of the word."

He mulls this over. He doesn't seem offended, or defensive, or anything like that, just as if he's never actually thought about it before. Then he seems to decide it's too much work, far too close to real emotional introspection, and in a flash, the devil-may-care smile is back. "Well, I can assure you, darling, it's much more fun to do things my way. Speaking of which, with the whole matter of Delilah's killer, when we do catch up to them – "

"Nope. Haven't changed my mind. I help you, you do as I say. It'll be good for you."

"I don't do things that are good for me. Gives me terrible indigestion."

"Your loss. I might have been almost starting to like you." Chloe raises her glass, and finishes off the rest at a pull. "Good night."

* * *

**IV.**

She sleeps in one of the attic bedrooms in Lux, hopefully not one in which a local lady of the evening has been brutally murdered by the Middle-earth version of Jack the Ripper, and her dreams are strange and savage. She's looking for her parents, but she can't find them. She's lost, and she's cold, and she's small, and she's scared. She has to get away, she has to get away now, but she doesn't want to go, and yet she'll die if she stays. It almost seems better than whatever can possibly await her out there, and she's fighting, and she's crying, and she's been cut out of her entire existence and she can't get back, she can't ever get back. _Lost. Lost. Lost._

Chloe falls for what feels like forever, hits the bottom, and wakes up with a jerk, in a cold sweat, the quilts tangled around her legs. She lies still, trying to regulate her breathing, and realizes she's clutching onto her necklace, for no apparent reason. She loosens her stiff fingers, puts her arm back down in the bed, and blows out a shaky breath. Right, whatever this place is doing to her, she doesn't want any more of it. Fulfill her promise to Lucifer, find whoever killed his friend, and then she's out of here. Honestly, she would be gone already, if not for the fact that it goes against her fundamental nature to let people, and especially murderers, get away with things they shouldn't. If there's no justice, there's no peace. And while Lucifer Morningstar himself is possibly the most dysfunctional person she has ever met, a slight part of her, to her great disgust, is still intrigued by him. Not necessarily in a sexual way, although she is a woman with eyes and a pulse, she can see that he's very attractive and by no means opposed to her doing whatever she wants with him. It's not pity, and it's not lust, and she still doesn't know why she dumped the whole Palmetto-and-Dan garbage truck on him. Maybe just because he was there and willing to listen, even if probably still thinking it was a stepping stone to getting laid later, but still.

Chloe dozes uneasily on and off until morning, where she gets up and then finds to her horror that someone has taken away her jeans and jacket and the rest of her Earth clothes in the night. They've left something that looks fiendishly impractical for trying to solve a homicide in, as well as very _skirty,_ but as Chloe regards it grimly, she supposes that there _is_ something to be said for blending in, for not making people stare at her everywhere she goes, and whatever other unwelcome attention she might attract by being a stranger in this very, very strange place. She swallows her pride and struggles into everything. Yes, even the corset.

She's still trying to adjust it (she didn't do it too tightly, it laces up the front, she's not interested in being an hourglass pinup) and not trip on the dress as she heads downstairs. Lucifer is in another of his usual all-black Mr. Darcy getups, which looks especially good on him because of course it does, but at the sight of her, he stops in his tracks, has a nice long gander, and then grins broadly. "So glad you're embracing the spirit of things, Detective."

"Yeah, I bet you are." She has a chemise on underneath, of course, but the corset still does things to her chest that her usual grey jersey T-shirt decidedly does not, and if she catches him staring at her cleavage even once, she's going to invest in a really large fan, explicitly for the purposes of smacking him with it. "This is temporary and only for the purposes of the investigation, by the way. When we're done, I want my usual clothes back."

"Well, Maze may have already burned them, but I'll see what I can do." Lucifer turns away to call for breakfast, as Chloe is still sputtering. "Eat up, Detective. We've got quite a day ahead."

Once they've finished, Lucifer puts on his hat and overcoat, Chloe also gets a long coat, the kind of hat that she's only seen women wearing at the Kentucky Derby, a parasol (which she decides will be excellent for prodding and/or poking and/or perforating Lucifer with, even in the event of no fan) and buttoned boots. She can't help but slightly enjoy this whole steampunk lady-detective getup, while simultaneously feeling ridiculous – she thought, and very much intended, her acting career to be over with _Hot Tub High School,_ after all. But, you know, needs must.

Out they head, chase down the most promising of their slender leads from yesterday, and finally deduce that there might have been an unfamiliar woman lurking around Delilah's room, shortly before the last time anyone saw her alive. Nobody can describe this woman, or even be entirely sure that they even did see her, but at least they seem to be agreed that there was one, and Chloe and Lucifer decide that this is worth chasing up. They have barely started, however, when the local surgeon who examined Delilah's body on Chloe's request sends a messenger to let them know that he found bits of something in her fatal wound, which seem to have been left there by the weapon. They drop by his laboratory, which looks very baroque mad-scientist, as he lays out the nasty-looking slivers of black glass in a dish beneath a magnifying lens. "Does this help?"

Chloe frowns. "Who could actually kill someone with a knife made out of _glass?"_

"Let me see that." Lucifer cranes over her shoulder, examining the shards, until she's quite conscious of how close he is behind her, and wonders if she should get him to move. While she's still debating, his face goes even darker. "Bloody hell, no. No, it can't be."

"What? Do you recognize that stuff?"

"There's not enough of it to be entirely sure, but. . . I do recognize it, yes. If I'm not wrong, this is glass from a weapon used by the Lilim. One of their special ones, in fact."

That word rings a vague bell in Chloe's mind. "Wait. Lilim. You mentioned something about that, didn't you? At the market?"

Lucifer shoots a significant glance at the surgeon, who takes the hint and excuses himself. Once they're alone in the lab, he says, "Yes, I did. As in, my mother was one."

"Excuse my outlander ignorance here, but what's a Lilim?"

"A. . . witch-queen, I suppose you could say. A powerful female demon and sorceress. There were three of them, sisters. My mother, Lilith, was the oldest. She married my father – as noted, the king of Stormhold – and produced myself and the rest of our miserable lot. They were happy, for a while. We were happy. But, well." His face makes it clear that this is not remotely a pleasant memory. "Things went wrong."

"I'm sorry, I really don't want to pry. But this might be relevant to the investigation."

"Yes, well." Lucifer attempts a nonchalant shrug. "Dad had other interests. Forgot about her. Never was good at caring for his own family, that one. She grew bitter, resentful, distant. Decided to stir up a rebellion against him, in repayment, and with a Lilim set against you, you can imagine how that goes. He defeated her and her sisters, eventually, but it broke our family apart, and I. . . I'd chosen my side against him as well, against the others. That was why I was thrown out. He imprisoned the three of them forever in a terrible cage, and that was the end." He glances again at the slivers of glass in the dish. "So we thought, at least."

"So. . . what?" Chloe has already bought this much, what the hell, so what's a bit more? "You think your demonic mother and aunts might have somehow escaped their magical evil prison, where your dad shut them up for all eternity? Damn, and I thought my family had problems."

Lucifer snorts a humorless laugh. "Glad to help you feel better, then."

"Look, if my ex-husband threw me in jail like that, I'd hold a grudge too." Chloe considers that this nearly happened, in some ways, and that she still is, if not to the point of getting revenge on Dan by randomly whacking Trixie's friends – even _if_ this is Lucifer's mother, and she's out, and the rest of that whole weird story, what does she get from going after Delilah? Just needed to celebrate being out of jail by killing someone? That's the kind of thinking that turns you into a recidivism statistic, and a life sentence, right after you finished serving your ten to fifteen with possibility of parole. "No offense, but your mother sounds like a total piece of work."

"Oh, she is." Lucifer's face remains dark and drawn. He's clearly also struggling with the question of motive, as if his mother, possibly sprung from the dread abyss after God knows how long, just wanted to pop back into his life and terrorize him, or if there's something more. Then something occurs to him, and he turns to her. "Yesterday, when you looked at Delilah. If you had to venture a guess, how would you say she died?"

"I don't know." Chloe is taken aback. "I'm not really into the forensics end of things – never mind. But it looked as if. . . well, like I said, like someone tried to rip out her heart."

This appears to be exactly the answer that Lucifer was hoping it not to be. He clenches a fist, stares at the door as if expecting the surgeon to be avidly eavesdropping on the other side, and gives her a look that says they need to continue this conversation elsewhere. Once they have made their excuses and let themselves out, a heavy coach thunders by in the road, he grabs her elbow to yanks her back from being run over, and Chloe tries to restore her heartbeat to normal. It reminds her of this morning, and those unpleasant dreams, which is definitely not a topic she plans on bringing up. "So," she says, now that the threat of death by trampling has passed. "Do you want to tell me if your mother, if this is actually your mother and not just some psycho with a glass knife, might want to rip out Delilah's heart?"

Lucifer shoots a shifty look around, for which Chloe can't blame him, really. He also still has hold of her elbow. There's probably some thing around here about ladies needing to be escorted in public, or whatever other pseudo-patriarchal "it was how things were done in Olde Times!" bullshit seems to crop up in fantasy novels written by straight white men. Either way, they have bigger fish to fry, so for the time being, Chloe lets it slide. "Well," he says. "The thing about the Lilim is that they are quite powerful and long-lived, but not indefinitely. Every so often, they need to refresh their strength and beauty and youth by eating a heart. To be specific, the heart of a fallen star."

"Okay, that's just sick." Chloe navigates around a mud puddle, which is not the easiest thing to do in long skirts and fancy boots. It'll certainly make a woman appreciate what her foremothers had to put up with, that's for sure. "Not to mention, I still don't see what that has to do with Delilah. Eating the heart of a fallen star – wouldn't that just be like a chunk of iron from a meteorite? I get that your mother is supposed to be a demon and all, but – "

Lucifer gives her the slightly pitying look she must have been giving him, when he didn't know what America was or if London was real; the ignoramus shoe is definitely on the other foot. There is probably a message about karma here, which both of them are certain to ignore. "A fallen star isn't a rock, Detective. It's a woman. When they take a little tumble out of their celestial realm and into this world, that's what they are. I've always felt rather a kinship with them; I took a bit of a tumble out of the sky myself. But in order to prevent the Lilim from gaining any more strength in their rebellion against Dad, the last star that fell – just a child, a tiny girl – was given a powerful protection charm and sent away to the human realm. That way they couldn't capture her and – "

"Eat her heart? Yeah, bloody child sacrifice is definitely not the way to win friends and influence people." Chloe wrinkles her nose. "Let me see if I'm following you. Once more not getting into the logistics of the whole 'stars are people too' business, if your mom is out and is the killer and went after Delilah, she thought she was – she thought _she_ was a star, and if she ate her heart, she'd be poofed young and powerful again?"

"Yes. In essence, that's it." Lucifer's lips are tight. "But what I still don't understand is why she'd even think there was a chance. A star hasn't fallen in ages, we'd know. So unless Mum was really so desperate as to hide in the bushes with her cleaver and jump out at every passing woman hoping she was secretly a star and her innards could be devoured for instant pep-up, which honestly doesn't sound like her, why go after Delilah at all?"

"Do you think she might try again, with someone else?" Chloe feels cold at the idea of what she thought was a fairly standard (well, considering the circumstances) murder case, turning into trying to take down a supernatural cannibal serial killer, who is also, supposedly at least, a demoness and a dangerous witch. Not exactly your average Tuesday at the precinct. This is out of her league. Can she just bail on Lucifer and ask for her candlelight ticket back to Wall, which is starting to sound like a pretty good idea? And yet. The idea of quitting, no matter how stacked the odds, still sticks in her craw. Chloe Decker is many things, but not a quitter.

"She might." Lucifer's expression remains troubled. "But bloody hell, it's going to eat me until I work it out. Unless someone actually saw a star and told Mum, it's still just a guess, and – "

"Maybe she came back," Chloe suggests. "You said one fell around the time of the rebellion, but had to be sent away. What if she decided to return?"

"She wouldn't. They magically erased her memories."

"They did that to a _kid?_ Really?"

"Would it be better if she remembered? Why make her grow up with that?"

"I suppose." Chloe is sobered by it, and rattled, and almost afraid. "So what, the star is out there somewhere? Could your mom cross the wall and get loose in the human world, if she decided to go after her?"

"She wouldn't have any magic if she did, and she couldn't cross as she doubtless is now, some decrepit old hag. It wouldn't do her any good. But. . ."

And at that, Lucifer stops. Lets go of her arm, turns around to face her, and looks her up and down. Not as he has before, with the hey-baby-wanna-bang shtick that she finds so eye-rolling, but with something else. A worried frown, something deadly serious. "Detective," he says slowly. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't _you_ just accidentally stumble into this world?"

"What?" Something very cold slithers down Chloe's back. "What the – Lucifer, are you suggesting – please tell me you're not suggesting that _I'm_ the star. I'm a person. A human. I have a human life, I grew up in Los Angeles with my human parents. I married a human, I have a human daughter. You are _way_ barking up the wrong tree here."

His foreboding expression doesn't alter. "Let's get back to Lux."

They walk the rest of the way to his tavern at a pace brisk enough for Lucifer to be almost dragging her in his wake like a caboose. The daytime crowd is pretty light, and Maze gives them a curious look, but Lucifer hustles Chloe the rest of the way up the stairs and into her room. Once there, with no preliminary, he says, "Do you have any scars, perhaps? Any funny markings? Any – say, bit of jewelry you've always had, and never known why?"

Chloe's hand rises inadvertently, traitorously, toward her necklace. "Lucifer, stop."

"Detective, I swear, I'm not trying to frighten you, but you need to tell me. Do you?"

"I. . ." This no longer seems like such a fun lark of an adventure. "All right, I do, but it's just this, okay?" She pulls the necklace out of her bodice. "It's not a sign that I'm an anthropomorphic heavenly body that somehow – "

He crosses the floor to her in a stride and cups it in his hand, dark head bent toward hers as he examines it. Then he says, "Anything else?"

"On my right shoulder. It's – look, it's stupid, it's just a birthmark, people have them, it's not – "

With a look at her, he asks permission, and she hesitates a long moment, then nods tersely. He pushes aside her dress and chemise, looking at the back of her shoulder, until she knows what he's seeing. The small birthmark that just happens to be in the perfect shape of a star.

"Bloody hell," Lucifer says at last, succinctly. He sounds even more stunned than when he found out about Delilah's murder. "It _is_ you."

"No." Chloe pulls her dress back up, feeling ill. "No, it's not."

"Did you show the necklace to anyone when you were here?"

"No, why would I do that? I didn't – "

And with that, with a jerk, she stops. Oh God. The scary lady with the jewelry, at the market, right before she met Lucifer. She definitely got a good look at it, and even tried to grab it, that was why Chloe decided to skip shopping at her wagon in the first place. If she was a witting or unwitting informer for a recently escaped and very pissed witch-queen who would be on five-alarm lookout for anything remotely resembling a star, whether or not it was one –

Chloe's knees feel rather weak. She sits abruptly on the bed, with Lucifer still staring at her from across the room. "This – " she says. "This – no. You people are all cracked, this is just some dream I'm having, I fell and I don't know, hit my head on the stone. Take me back to Wall. Wake me up. Something. I don't want to do this anymore."

"Detective – "

 _"Take me back!"_ She lurches to her feet, grabs the lapels of his jacket, and almost shakes him. "This isn't my home, this isn't my place! I want to go back to the _human_ world, where I belong, where shit like this doesn't suddenly happen and pull the rug out from under you! It's not possible, I'm not a _fallen star_ , but if your crazy mother thinks I am – "

"Detective. _Chloe."_ Lucifer takes hold of her by the upper arms, grasping firmly and making her look at him. "As I said, I'll take you home, but if this is who you really are – "

"No. You're the one with the crazy invented fantasy background, not me. Don't ask me to buy into your little psycho mind trip. Take me home right now."

He continues to look at her as if, for once, even he doesn't know what to say. The silence stretches on, threatening to become all-consuming – until it is interrupted by a crash from downstairs.

Lucifer snaps into motion almost too fast to see. He whirls around and jerks the door open, Chloe lunges after him onto the landing, they look down into Lux's common room below, and both of them get an eyeful of the black-clad soldiers pouring in. At the same time, one of the Ren Faire stormtroopers looks up, sees them, and points straight at Chloe. _"There_ she is! Hand over the star, and nobody else needs to be hurt. Queen Lilith's orders."

At the sound of this, Lucifer goes utterly and completely still. The world seems to freeze along with him, almost to a crawl. Nobody seems to breathe. Then he locks eyes with Maze, an unspoken and deliberate agreement passes between them, and as one, they act.

Maze explodes at the soldiers in a lethal dark blur, as Lucifer grabs Chloe, lowers his shoulder like a tank, takes a running start, and jumps two stories straight down, into the back corner of the bar. The black knights are swarming on Maze, she's kicking some very, very serious ass – apparently Lucifer's bartender is also a ninja, because of course she is – and Lucifer rockets madly through the back hall, meets more soldiers coming the other way, swings his arm back, and blasts them out of the way hard enough to drive them bodily through the wall. Chloe can do nothing but hurtle along behind him, arms over her head, chaos on every side, as another of the Monty Python and the Holy Grail extras reaches for her, she punches him in the face hard enough to hear his nose crack, and judo-throws the other one who tries to finish what his buddy started. Even in cumbersome skirts, she is not some frail, fainting flower.

Lucifer is going through the rest of them like a bull in a china shop, which is both a gruesome and riveting spectacle. They finally reach the back door, he breaks it open and drags Chloe out after him, and looks madly in every direction. There is no way out; they're boxed in by the walls of the back courtyard, and by the sounds of the shouts and running footsteps, yet more of those assholes are on the way. Chloe can smell smoke, and looks up just in time to see flames crackling along the eaves. What the hell. They're setting the place on fire.

Lucifer stares at his burning tavern with a wild, desperate look on his face. Maze is still inside, and he of course has no way of knowing if even she might have met her match from sheer force of numbers. Then he looks back at Chloe, and she can tell that he has a split-second decision to make. Stay, try to defend Lux, and get captured by his mother's minions, or –

Maze's voice echoes faintly from inside, a strangled shout. _"Lucifer! Run!"_

For half a moment more, he remains paralyzed. Then he wheels around, grabs hold of Chloe, and fumbles madly in his jacket pocket. The candle, the Babylon candle. They are getting out of here, he's going to do what he said, take her back to Wall, back to Linda's, she'll wake up in bed and this will all just be a strange nightmare – she's not a star, she didn't fall out of the sky, she doesn't care what he did, she's not like him – the _sky,_ come on, what the hell, what the _hell –_

Lucifer lights the candle, and then, in the next instant, the world is gone.


	2. Stardust

_take my hand i'm a stranger in paradise_  
_all lost in a wonderland_  
_if i stand starry-eyed_  
_that's a danger in paradise_  
_for mortals who stand beside an angel like you_

 _i saw your face and i ascended_  
_out of the commonplace into the rare_  
_somewhere in space i hang suspended_  
_until i know there's a chance that you care_  
_won't you answer this fervent prayer_  
_of a stranger in paradise?_

* * *

**V.**

For a long, impossibly long moment, they are nowhere, _neverwhere,_ whatsoever. Not even existing, just _between_ , as if the wardrobe was opened into Narnia but not quite all the way, and they ran facefirst into the back of the wall instead. Then reality slams back in like a tempest – indeed exactly like a tempest, since it is one. Rain hisses and slices at them from every side, knocking them topsy-turvy like fallen leaves in a gust of wind, and as Chloe tries to scream and catch her breath at the same time, she flails out for something solid to catch onto, to steady herself, and gets – nothing. Just a fitful of swirling, damp grey stuff that slides through her fingers like spider silk, and as she skids again, she looks down, which is a terrible mistake. There is nothing but miles and miles of empty, storm-wracked air below her, cauldrons of churning clouds, spears of jagged lightning. She is half in and half out of a particularly impressive towering thunderhead, and sliding toward that yawning abyss. As ridiculous as it sounds – _shit,_ that last instant before Lucifer lit the Babylon candle, he already told her not to think of anything while he was using it, it must take you wherever you imagine, and she was thinking about the sky, after that ridiculous fairytale about her actually being a fallen star, sent away to prevent his crazy witch-queen mother from eating her heart and powering up about a hundred levels –

At that moment, as the edge of the cloud crumbles and Chloe does, indeed, start to fall (as any human would do if chucked out of a magical plane at thirty thousand feet with no parachute – it proves exactly nothing about her heritage) a hand catches her by the wrist and hauls her up next to him. Lucifer is just as drenched to the skin as she is, with a look of aghast confusion on his face – wherever he meant to take them to escape the attack on Lux, it clearly was not this. "What the bloody hell did you do, Detective?" he bellows. "I _told_ you not to – "

"Oh, so it's _my_ fault your magical MacGyver backfired?" Chloe is not about to be blamed for this self-absorbed man-child's performance issues, even as she too has to yell over the racket of the storm. "Maybe if you weren't pulling it out of your ass about me being a star, I wouldn't have accidentally thought of – so what, how do we get down, fall again? I'm not going to jump off a fucking _cloud –_ I said, I want to go – "

Just then, something flashes and snaps around them, and the next instant, they are encased in a cage of wet rope – like a heavy-duty fishing net, but who on literally-not-earth is _fishing_ up here? Then they are both, fittingly, plunging out of the sky, a deck races up at them far too fast, and Chloe is lucky enough to land directly on top of Lucifer, who considerately breaks her fall. She's still plenty winded, but she can just make out that they are on something that looks almost like an old-fashioned ship, with a zeppelin in place of a sail and wide wire wings that crackle with lightning. That, however, is not her chief concern. That would be the glowering, grizzled men in raincoats and hats and goggles, gathering around and gawking at them like rare animals in the zoo. "Lightning marshals?" one of them yells. "You think, Cap'n?"

"Don't look like lightning marshals to me!"

"But what would they be doin' up here otherwise?"

"Let's think!" The man – the captain, evidently – glares daggers through his slow-witted subordinate. "MAYBE THE SAME GODFORSAKEN THING WE ARE!"

At the sound of the voice, Lucifer stirs underneath Chloe – he's not dead, which she's feeling uncharitable enough to consider rather a disappointment, but an unwanted stab of relief gets her in the gut anyway – and attempts to sit up, the best one can when entangled in a fishing net thrown by steampunk pirates plying the stormy skies of this-had-really-better-be-a-fucking-nightmare-land. "Captain Shakespeare?"

The captain – that name sounds vaguely familiar, Chloe knows Lucifer mentioned it before, when she was asking him how he could quote _Romeo and Juliet_ without knowing a thing about England – briefly tenses. Then they are peeled out of the net with a thud and a tumble, the captain (who bears a remarkable resemblance to Robert de Niro, not that he likely is aware of that) peers at them critically, then bellows an order for them to be taken to the brig. Nautical terminology is not exactly Chloe's strong suit, but even she is pretty sure that means "jail," a suspicion which is confirmed as they are hauled to their feet and marched down to a dingy, iron-grated cubbyhole that smells like Moby Dick died in here. They are forthwith tied up, still soaking wet, and left alone to shiver as Lucifer says, "That wasn't what he was supposed to do."

"Friend of yours?" Chloe tries to work at the ropes. She knows how to get out of handcuffs and zip ties, but of course pseudo-Victorian airship pirates are old school in their prisoner-restraining methods. "Or no, wait. You made a deal with him sometime in the past, and he owes you something. So yes, of course he threw you in here to prevent you from babbling to his crew and blowing his cover. Makes perfect sense." She hates herself for thinking logically about this whole mess, but then, someone has to.

"Yes, well, I didn't consider that." Lucifer sounds mildly intrigued. "You're a sharp one, Detective."

"Not necessarily, I just think about other people apart from myself. And speaking of sharp, if you have anything like that, we could use it. Then we can get out of here, and – "

With that, Chloe stops. And what? Fight their way through the entire lot of them? Get struck by lightning? Leap overboard for a several-mile fall, so Queen Lilith's soldiers can helpfully collect her heart from the rest of her splattered remains? No matter how hard she tries, she isn't waking up, and she has no idea what to do. It's a dead end, pretty literally. She slumps forward, as best she can against their bonds, as the fight drains out of her like a punctured water balloon. "So, they're. . . just going to kill us, then."

"Don't think so. I'm sure I can persuade him otherwise."

"Right," Chloe says into her knees. "Because you're Mr. Persuasive."

"Well, that and offering him a trunk of frilly underthings. One of the two."

Chloe scoffs, as this is really no time for him to try to be funny, and is just about to wrack her brain for something, anything else she might have overlooked, when the brig door rattles and Captain Robert de Niro steps inside. He regards them menacingly for a long moment, then says, "And what exactly are YOU doing up in the aetherium, sonny boy?"

"I assure you. Entirely an accident, Oscar." Lucifer flashes him a winning smile. "You just happened to apprehend me with my new lady friend – I've definitely slept with her, by the way, slept with her several times, I really do love sleeping with her – after we, ah. Took a bit of an unexpected detour."

"Detour? DE-TOUR?" Oscar Shakespeare, if that is actually this lunatic's real name (though it isn't any less pretentious than Lucifer Morningstar) snorts in patent disbelief. "And somehow ended up with this lovely lady, far too radiant to belong to one man – it's share and share alike on this vessel!"

There is a loud cheer from outside the door. Great. Of course the entire crew is listening in. And if any of them lay a single finger on Chloe, she will stuff it so far up their ass that they will punch their own teeth out. This "arr, avast, ravish the womenfolk" act was old at least a hundred years ago, and she doesn't care what century they are stuck in. She _will_ sue the shit out of them, even if she has to drag their fantasy-novel behinds over the Wall to Los Angeles Superior Court. "Look," she snaps. "I don't know who you think you are, but if you try anything, just know that it's the stupidest thing you will ever – "

"NO PRISONER WILL SPEAK THAT WAY TO ME!" He raises a fist, and Chloe flinches, but he just hits a nearby sack of flour, which makes a convincingly squelchy noise, to the accompaniment of more wild cheers from outside the door. To hell with _pirates,_ they appear to have landed aboard a traveling circus. "The both of you will pay for your insolence, right here and right now – let's see how well you fly when I chuck you off the side of my – "

The end result of a furious stampede to the rail by the crew, the sight of a body plunging into the clouds below, Captain Shakespeare dragging a struggling Chloe on deck and into his cabin, and more obnoxious shouting and wolf-whistles from these dickheads, is that the door finally slams behind them, Captain Shakespeare straightens up, dusts off his hands, and says in an entirely different tone, "So. That went well, I thought."

"I. . . am still completely lost." Chloe sinks down on the nearest piece of furniture – which happens to be a fussy claw-footed chaise upholstered in red satin, and would not look out of place in some fashionable fin-de-siècle nightclub in Paris. Slightly an odd design choice for the terror of the high, uh, skies, but she's long since quit thinking that she has any idea what is going on. "Where did you get that mannequin? You two know each other? So that whole Oz The Great and Powerful act was just for the sake of the crew, can _one_ of you please – "

Lucifer, who is sitting at the other end of the cabin after having the mannequin chucked off the airship in his place, evidently to give the impression that the fearsome Captain Shakespeare had knocked off this dangerous rogue without breaking a sweat, clears his throat. "What exactly _shall_ I tell her about you, Oscar, darling?"

" _Darl –_ " Chloe stares back and forth between them. She did _not_ see that coming. "What, did you two have a fling too?"

"Tragically no, honey, but we do share an appreciation for fine couture." Captain Shakespeare gives her a knowing look, ushering her toward his closet. "By the way, take your pick. It's all very à la mode. I'm not quite sure what you're wearing, or rather _used_ to be wearing, but – "

"Wait, is this some kind of 'let's get you out of those wet clothes?' shtick?" Chloe clutches her cloak closer; she is still wearing the secondhand garments left for her at Lux. They have certainly seen better days after her recent adventures, and a wet corset is among the most uncomfortable things in the world to wear, but like hell is she stripping down with Lucifer and Captain Fashionista standing there to admire the results (possibly one more than the other). "What you were going on about earlier, with that whole 'far too radiant to belong to one man' thing – "

"Oh, honey, no, no, no. I would never, ever disrespect a lady like that. The whole thing, the act, the terrible Captain Shakespeare, never cross his will – it all adds up to a fearsome reputation without ever having to spill one drop of blood. And besides, Prince Samael and I, we've done plenty of good business. Know each other."

"Prince Samael?" Chloe remembers their conversation at Lux, of asking why his parents would name him Lucifer, of hearing the names of his siblings and thinking that that didn't go with them, but deciding not to dig. "Is that your real name?"

Lucifer grimaces. "It _was_ my name. I certainly don't go by it anymore."

"Okay." This is, shockingly, starting to make a certain amount of sense. Whatever Lucifer knows about Captain Shakespeare, and it's clearly something, he can't go blabbing, if that was something he felt inclined to do, because Captain Shakespeare likewise knows his true identity. That whole story about him running away from home, thrown out of the kingdom, having brothers who like to kill each other for power – Chloe can guess that he is not keen on having anyone put together the pieces to lead from Samael, Prince of Stormhold, to Lucifer Morningstar, owner of Lux and brokerer of sleazy small-time transactions. But then why did he tell her, so easily, the very first time they met? She could have been anyone, a spy for his mother, or. . . he had no reason to do that, to trust her. He just, well. Did.

"Well," Lucifer says after a moment. "We need to get her back to Wall, to the – to her world. She's fulfilled her end of the bargain, in helping me identify a killer. Now I fulfil mine."

"Wall?" Captain Shakespeare beams in delight. "Are you from _England?_ Really? You must tell me all about it!"

"I – no. From – America." Chloe smiles uncomfortably. For all that she was insisting to Lucifer that he was crazy and she wanted to go home right before his mother's men attacked Lux, she still feels strange about actually doing it. "Wait, you're not from England, are you?"

"No, no, of course not. I merely grew up listening to all the stories, and though everyone told me they were only that, I knew in my heart that they were real, and I was right. I learned everything I could, so the name, Shakespeare – I'm thinking legendary British wordsmith, my enemies are thinking _shake – spear!_ But honey, I'm talking too much. Do pick something out. You're safe aboard my ship, and I promise, I will get you to Wall. Just have a few stops to make on the way."

"I – thank you." Chloe is oddly touched, not least because she was expecting a whole lot worse just an hour ago. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly do you _do?"_

"We collect lightning. Barrel it, sell it at a good price, to discerning buyers. Very useful stuff, lightning. Means quite a bit of flying in storms, though." Seeing that she has still not approached the apparently life-changing wonderland of his closet, Captain Shakespeare flings it open to reveal dresses in every cut and colour, feather boas, fringed shawls, high heels, ruffled parasols, painted fans, strings of pearls, and all other sorts of accessories. There is also a gramophone, a three-paneled mirror, and a full makeup kit in a handsome wooden case, until Chloe wonders just who exactly all of this is for. It's not like she saw any fugitive exotic dancers on the crew, but then, it _was_ dark and raining. "Doll, take your pick."

"My name is Chloe Decker, not _doll."_ Still, he means well, so she doesn't feel the need to scold him too vehemently. She browses among the dresses, all of which look far more expensive than anything she would wear at home, until she pulls out a simple purple and black one, velvet and chiffon, and some dry undergarments. Once she has shut the closet to change inside, peeling off the corset and grimacing at the whalebone grooves worn into her torso, she can still hear Lucifer and Captain Shakespeare conferring in low voices outside, but can't make out what they're saying. Grateful as she is not to be thrown over the side or providing the evening's entertainment for a pack of mouth-breathing lightning thieves, Chloe still can't quite relax. Surely if Lucifer is telling Shakespeare to take them back to Wall, he's dropping the whole thing about her being a star. Why he would say so in the first place, she still doesn't know, but –

Unless he's not. Unless he's doing the same thing they did before, sending her into the human realm now that Queen Lilith is once more on the loose, to save her life, stop the witch-queen from eating her heart and becoming too powerful to be destroyed. As if it's just too dangerous to let her stay, and Lucifer will go back, see if Maze survived the attack on Lux, and take up the fight either with her or entirely alone. Chloe can go back to Earth more or less unscathed, just as she wanted. Away from this more-than-mortal battle and all its strange and terrible implications for who she might really be, where she comes from. Her parents always called her their miracle child – there was never any indication that she was anything less than theirs. If for argument's sake she _was_ adopted, why wouldn't they just tell her? It's not as if it's a shameful secret these days. They wouldn't –

Again, though, Chloe hears Lucifer telling her that they erased the star's memory, so that she wouldn't grow up with the burden of knowing. What _would_ her parents tell her, that she was a magical star from another world? Did they even know, or were they so happy to receive a child for adoption that they were given some mundane cover story about her origins and believed it? No one ever wanted her to come back here, if it was so paramount that she stayed away. Better to let her think that she was a completely normal human, growing up in a completely normal life. A human who shines when she's happy, and has always felt more alive on clear starry nights than anywhere, anything else.

Chloe sinks down to sit on the padded pouf, staring at her hands. How can she just. . . not be who she is? Did whoever arranged to smuggle her out of Stormhold also meddle with John and Penelope Decker's memories, so they never even had the choice to tell her? A surge of blind anger wells up in her, so strong she thinks she might be sick, as she leans forward, breathing hard. What is she, just some cosmic chess piece? As long as Lilith couldn't eat her heart, it didn't matter what happened to her? Does she even matter to them, or –

Just then, there's a knock. "Detective? All right in there? The feathers didn't eat you, did they?"

"Fff. . ." Chloe's voice seems to have deserted her. It sounds strange and strangled when it finally comes. "I'm fine. Just a minute."

There's a pause, and then the closet door opens. Lucifer lets himself in, waggling an eyebrow at all the fabulousness on display, then shuts it. He looks at her awkwardly, in what a normal person would be concern for a friend, but in him, so foreign to any kind of selfless action, is. . . Chloe doesn't know what. She's tired of guessing, and doesn't have the patience to humor his ignorance or innuendos right now. "You can go, Lucifer. I said, I'm fine."

He mulls this over. She waits for him to make a stupid joke. Then he crosses the floor and crouches down next to the pouf. "I imagine this doesn't help at all," he says, "but I know the feeling. Of falling out of the sky, that your family betrayed you, that the whole lot of it is a lie and now you're going to be alone, so. . . well. If you wanted to, I don't know, have a chat about it, or something? Sex is always on the table."

Chloe snorts. "That's how you fix everything, isn't it?"

"Well, it usually works," Lucifer admits. "You're quite a mystery to me, Detective. And it's not just because you're a star, because I _have_ met others, and that went as it usually does. It's something about you, particularly." He cocks his head, considering her. "I'm not sure."

"But – you said your mother rebelled long ago. I'm not _that_ old. If I was the star exiled when that happened, shouldn't I have arrived in, what, the medieval era? Fall of Rome? Before?"

He looks puzzled, as these dates don't mean anything to him, but he can grasp the point. "Not necessarily. Remember what I said, about how now Stormhold and Earth run to the same time, but they didn't always, and how a day here could have been two hundred years there? When you were sent out, you could theoretically arrive in any time, any place, on the other side of the Wall. I suppose there was a little extra magic involved in making sure it was where and when you were supposed to be."

"Supposed to be according to who?"

"I don't know." His mouth twists. "Dad, probably."

"And you must be what – hundreds of years old? _Thousands?"_

"I don't know," he says again. He shrugs. "I'm half-Lilim, and there's plenty of fae in me too. I last a long time. I'd only ever be permanently immortal if I also ate a star's heart, but, well. Not my cup of tea. You're that old too, even if you don't remember it. How long you'll live – I don't know, it could be different for you. You're the only star who's ever gone out of Stormhold, crossed the Wall, and lived. Must have never taken off your protection charm, or you'd have crumbled into a little heap of stardust."

Chloe flinches. Her hand moves toward her necklace, that one she has always worn, no matter what. That it terrifies her to think of taking off. Finally, she says, "So, who. . . who took me out of here, then? Do you know _that?"_

"Actually, yes." Lucifer's eyes flicker to her. "My brother Amenadiel. Terribly boring pompous ass, but never mind that. Delivered you to your new human parents, on Dad's orders."

"And did he wipe their memories?" It bursts out of Chloe before she can stop it, as she rises half to her feet, burning with anger she can no longer contain. They knew she was adopted, of course, but did anyone even ask them if they wanted to take her in, her danger, if Lilith had found a way to follow her into their world? Oh God, what if – all this time, she thought her dad was just a beat cop shot at a robbery gone wrong, but what if –

"Detective." Lucifer tries to catch her arm, but she shakes him off. "I don't know, I didn't even know it _was_ you, obviously. Just that he smuggled the star out before Mu – Queen Lilith could find her – you. My family is – "

"Yeah, I can see where the god complexes come from, and it's not just the names." Chloe inhales a deep, ragged breath. "I want to find Amenadiel."

Lucifer looks shifty. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Why not? Not good for you, you mean? You're friends with the captain. Tell him to fly to Stormhold, or wherever your brother is. I'm a detective, Lucifer. I want the truth."

He considers her for a long moment. "A common lightning pirate such as Shakespeare would be seized and thrown off the tallest tower of the keep if he dared to set one well-dressed foot in Stormhold – and trust me, is a _long_ way down. Nor do I have any interest in renewing relations with my bloody family, or in taking that fall again. However, Amenadiel is abroad fairly often, and we could possibly. . ." He hesitates. It is clear that this goes against every one of his instincts. "Chloe, are you sure you want to know?"

His use of her first name catches her off guard, as he prefers "Detective" the rest of the time, half-teasing and half-tenacious, as if no matter anything else, come hell or high water, he _will_ be a gentleman. She wants to shout at him, but that breaks her, somehow, and she turns away, hugging herself hard, not looking at him. "Yes," she says at last, and that one word is more than just agreement to the current proposition. It is as well an acknowledgement that this is real, that this is really happening, and the truth about her entire life is – whatever it is, it's nothing like she thought. As she said, she solves mysteries, connects clues, reveals culprits. She just never expected that mystery to be her.

"Yes," she says again, as steadily as she can. "I want to know."

Lucifer looks at her for a moment longer. Chloe isn't sure why it feels so. . . _hot._ Must just be the rush of her anger, the heat of her supposed starshine glow, whatever strange alchemy is at work in her, turning her into. . . this. Then he nods once. "All right," he says. "I'll ask the captain."

* * *

**VI.**

They spend the next few days aboard Captain Shakespeare's ship, the _Caspartine,_ soaring far above the world below – a world which neither Chloe, nor anyone else, has ever seen from an airplane, and she sits by the porthole with her nose glued to the glass, trying to look at everything. They're not allowed to come out of the cabin yet, since Shakespeare is going to pretend to take them on at the next port – his crew is still under the impression that he chucked Lucifer over the edge and took Chloe here for his personal very manly amusements, after all. But it's comfortable, they have everything they need, and one afternoon with the sun slanting through the diamonded windows, spilling golden motes across the mahogany beams and polished brass fittings, the unique and beautiful navigational equipment and charts (she's sure she has seen them surreptitiously switch their painted lines and landscapes, since after all, the world is not always where you left it in Faerie) twinkling in the beautiful blown-glass lamps and the spines of gilted, leather-bound books written in languages she can't read, Chloe finally, finally takes a breath and allows herself to savor the adventure, the strangeness and charm. This is here, this is happening, she's flying in an airship, she's in this magical realm, she's seeing all kinds of –

And then worry, as usual, comes crashing in over her delight. She knows Lucifer promised to send a message to Linda explaining that she was staying that one night, but it has now been quite a bit longer than one night. Has she missed her flight back to America? Have people gotten concerned, contacted the police? Does Trixie think her mother is never coming home, or are Penelope and Dan putting on a brave face for her, telling her that Mommy is probably just having a good time in England? Jesus. Chloe has to remember, no matter how much merry gallivanting she is currently doing, what is at stake here. Her family, her home – no matter the truth she wants so badly from Amenadiel – is still on the other side of the wall. This place has been doing what Faerie does to you. Making her forget.

Lucifer catches sight of the expression on her face. "All right, Detective?"

Chloe's first instinct, as usual, is to brush him off, but several days of living in close quarters have rendered him marginally less obnoxious – she must be building up her tolerance, and he might be able to actually help with this. She tersely explains her dilemma, asks if there is a magical post office around here or something, and he says there may be something of the sort when they make port, but heaven knows how long it would take to be delivered to Linda, let alone her family. He has connections back in Lux and his usual haunts, but this is wild, uncharted territory, the borderlands. If Chloe _wants_ to send something, she can, but the odds are equal or greater that Queen Lilith's black knights will intercept it en route. And that would put all of them in terrible danger, especially Linda. She's right there in Wall, ripe for the picking, if Lilith finds a way in – and she could. Doubtful that she'd try to cross without a star's heart to rescue her from her current state of decrepitude, but you never know.

Chloe has to take that in for a moment. She has noticed the stiff, impersonal way Lucifer speaks of his mother – always "Queen Lilith," cold and formal. If _her_ mother was a murderous demon (she's only played a vampire queen on screen, to the best of Chloe's knowledge) she might do the same, but she senses a fragility there as well. The same reason he calls her "Detective" instead of "Chloe" she thinks, before she can stop herself. Lucifer might have been estranged from his mother for God knows how many literal centuries, but if he started calling her "Mum" on a regular basis, allowed himself to have some faint hope that that damage could be mended, that relationship restored, he'd be exposed. Vulnerable. And she's already getting the sense that any real emotion, anything he can't ward off with an inappropriate joke and wink and favor and sexy smolder, anything that reaches him deep and seizes him in its claws, is terrifying. Not that she knows anyone else like that. Certainly not where the wise-ass remarks are concerned. (No, an unwelcome voice whispers. Her defense mechanism is burying herself in work.)

Chloe is still chewing this over when they finally soar in and make port. She was expecting, you know, a town, which is her first mistake. It is one, sort of, but it's floating in midair, clearly a docking station and truck stop for passing airships without putting them to the bother of actually landing the damn thing. She and Captain Shakespeare step off onto a narrow gangplank that sways several thousand feet above the rugged glens below, struts twined with shreds of blowing cloud, and Chloe clutches his arm, even as she forces herself not to look back for Lucifer. This is the first time she has been separated from him at all since she arrived in Faerie, and no matter how much she's told herself she can't wait to do just that, she feels naked without him. She has no idea what else it is, but she knows that if he's around, she's safe. She can't explain it. Despite the danger and weirdness and earth-shaking revelations about her past, she just feels. . . protected, somehow. Like he has her back, always, no matter how annoying he is about it. By herself, she is just one woman, who still knows almost nothing about this world.

She and Captain Shakespeare cross the jungle gym of skywalks to a rather seedy dwelling, which belongs to a short and annoying man in a fedora (aren't they all?) called Ferdy the Fence, clearly the buyer for all the black-market lightning that Shakespeare and his crew have been smuggling. It's entertaining to watch them haggle, even as Chloe can't help but have a look at all the fantastic (and probably very illegal) items and artefacts lining the walls of Ferdy's rundown trading post. But he ears prick up as she catches something that sounds distinctly like "star." Sure, they could be discussing the usual nocturnal astronomical configurations of this place, but she doesn't think so, especially when she then hears "Lilith." Drifting unobtrusively in their direction, she can make out Ferdy asking Shakespeare if he's heard the rumors of a star on the loose, and the witch-queen, out of prison at last, hotly hunting her. The price she's offered for it is a good one, but think. A star is a treasure beyond price, all kinds of use for it. Eternal life. Wouldn't it be something to have a thing like that. In all his peregrinations, Shakespeare hasn't heard a whisper of anything like that, has he?

Chloe hopes it's her imagination that Shakespeare's eyes flicker ever so slightly toward her – they, of course, have not told the captain, or anyone else, who she is. Lucifer trusts him, more or less, but that seems more based on mutually assured blackmail and profitable business interests, rather than a deep and reliable personal bond. Shakespeare is a pirate, after all, even if he steals lightning (how can you steal lightning?) rather than gold and gems. He could still sell them out if it got too dangerous or expensive to keep them away from –

"No," Shakespeare says. "Nothing."

Ferdy looks disappointed. "You sure?"

"Quite. Now hand over that two hundred, get your layabout lads to fetch the barrels – it's not getting any fresher, after all – and by the way, you haven't by chance heard of the whereabouts of one Amenadiel, Prince of Stormhold?"

Ferdy whistles. "That's a dangerous bloke to be sniffing after. Get yourself chucked off your own ship, is that what you want?"

"My business." Shakespeare folds his arms. "Well?"

Ferdy picks his teeth. "Some tale of one of those princes rattling around in a big black coach, near the Market. Also looking for the star, by the way. What would that be for?"

"You're a nosy wanker, Ferdy."

"Just like to know the value of information." Ferdy squints, even as Chloe's heart skips a beat at the news that Amenadiel may also be looking for her in return. Why? To once more bundle her away from his psycho mother, back to Earth without any memories of this? It sounds like something he might do, if he's in the habit of ignoring people's feelings in the name of some greater good. And yes, Chloe wants to go home, wants to be safe from crazy queens wanting to eat her, wants to see her family again – but she doesn't want to forget. She doesn't want to forget this adventure, what she's learned, even if it's been far more uncomfortable and unsettling than she could ever have bargained for. What she's seen, done, tasted, touched, felt.

And Lucifer.

She really doesn't want to forget him. More strongly than she ever imagined she would. She's never going to see him again once she leaves – it's not like you can just pop over to Faerie for weekend visits, and what would she do anyway? Listen to him brag about his sexual conquests and gripe about his insane family, which either wants to kill her or make her forget she was ever here? She won't miss him or anything. Of course not. That's stupid. But she does not want to forget him, so much it almost hurts. And no. It doesn't make sense to her either.

Once Ferdy and Shakespeare have finished their badinage, and the barrels of lightning have been offloaded, the party heads back to the _Caspartine –_ where a dashing figure springs up from where he has been relaxing on the deck, and Chloe's breath briefly and annoyingly catches in her throat. Lucifer has had some kind of magical makeover too, since his hair is now shoulder-length and swept back in a thick black ponytail that suits him horribly well, with his usual artful stubble and slightly unbuttoned blouson shirt, jacket and boots and a leather strap over a broad shoulder, from which swings a basket-handled sword. He looks like a very, very sexy pirate (fittingly, since they are, after all, aboard a pirate airship) and Chloe's mouth is too dry to swallow as Captain Shakespeare loudly introduces the crew to his nephew, Sam. He'll be coming aboard for the next leg of the journey – oh, and Shakespeare has a present for him, this lovely wench they picked up out of a storm a week back. He hopes she'll keep "Sam" _very_ happy.

Much as Chloe bristles at this whole disgustingly chauvinist notion of being given as a _present_ to anyone, even for show, she knows it's the only way to explain them continuing to share a cabin (even if the crew didn't know they were doing so in the first place). She's also wondering why all this obvious dick-swinging is necessary, what secret Captain Shakespeare is so diligently trying to conceal from his men that he would rather they think he's a bellowing murderous rapist. He's nice. A little, you know, flamboyant, and he's certainly taken good care of them and agreed to help them, at what must be no small risk to himself. It doesn't just seem to be in fear about what Lucifer could possibly reveal about him, but what does she know?

In any event, Shakespeare gives Chloe a push so she stumbles forward and lands against Lucifer's chest, he catches her and makes some kind of gesture that causes the crew to roar, and settles his arm around her waist, tucking her into him. Chloe reminds herself that it's for appearances, ignoring the slight flutter in her stomach that doesn't seem at all to do with nerves. So what. He's attractive. Really attractive, right now. She's allowed to notice. That doesn't mean she has any intention of catching whatever faerie STDs he probably has, especially in a place that has not yet invented penicillin.

They untie from the mooring and reverse back into the air, the wind rippling their hair back from their faces. Lucifer goes off to confer with Shakespeare, and by the looks they throw at her, Chloe can definitely guess what the subject is. After some discussion, he strides back to her. Seems they have decided that Amenadiel is most likely in the village just on the other side of Wall, the one Chloe stumbled into when she first arrived. So that's a sort of two-birds, one-stone thing. Get the truth from him, and then she can go home.

At that, however, Chloe can't help but wonder if she's being stunningly naïve to think that she can just track down Amenadiel, he'll willingly fess up everything he knows, and then let her go on her merry way again without any consequences. After all, he and his father went to great lengths to make sure she got out of here for good, and all their hard work is in danger of being undone in an instant, if Lilith catches up to her. She has strained and strained to call up any repressed memory, any flicker of knowledge from before her childhood in Los Angeles, but she can never get any further than that dream she had that night in Lux. Just that feeling of being cast out, alone, fallen and fragile, banished far from her life and home, and never, never able to find the way back.

Captain Shakespeare says it's a journey of another week from here to Wall, and there is no way to make it go faster. So, Chloe supposes, she might as well try to enjoy it. She can't deny that she is, very much. Lucifer plays the piano in the cabin in the evenings, and she perches on the bench next to him, wanting to join in, even though three years of lessons have only left her barely able to plink out "Chopsticks," much to his disbelief. But he wants to teach her how to play again, and Chloe can feel it coming back to her as they go. Or by day, she sits outside on the quarterdeck as they fly through endless blue sky and sculpted columns of puffy white clouds, watching Lucifer and Captain Shakespeare practice their sparring. Lucifer with a sword is, well. It's incredibly hot. Sue her.

The sunsets are even more spectacular, and the air is warm from the heat of the zeppelin, as glimmering lakes and dark forests and snowy mountains reel away below. One night, Captain Shakespeare hauls out his gramophone (clearly the latest in music tech around here) puts it on, and takes Chloe by the hand, leading her in a stately turn across the weathered boards. She's already insisted that she doesn't dance, but he likewise insisted that of course a lady dances, and it feels a bit ungracious to refuse. As he twirls her closer, he leans in and whispers, "Chloe, I know what you are."

She tenses, starting to pull back.

"But have no fear," he goes on, just as quietly. "Nobody aboard this vessel will harm you, but there are plenty who would. Your emotions give you away. You must learn to control them. You've been glowing more brightly every day, and I think you know why."

Chloe blinks, nonplussed. Yes, she's felt rather, well, _shiny_ recently, but it's still barely processed that this is an actual, physical effect – that white light that Dan always said she gave off when she was especially happy, but which she thought was just a romantic figure of speech. And oddly, despite all the reasons not to be, she _is_ happy. More than she's been in a while, what with the endless work and the fallout of Palmetto and the painful process of the divorce, even if she and Dan had agreed cordially and mutually that it was the best thing to do, and no point dragging it out. Maybe it's because, if she _is_ a star, she has been living in the sky at last, freed from the toil and constraint of earthly cares. Up here, where the world goes on forever – was this the view, the existence, the place in the universe she was always meant to have, watching over the world (or rather, worlds) below? She might not consciously remember it, but that doesn't mean she can't still feel it, deep in her heart.

At that moment, Captain Shakespeare steps back, turns around, and offers her hand to Lucifer, who has stepped up behind them. Chloe hesitates, for no good reason. "I – no, I still can't dance, I don't think this is a – "

"Come on," he says, giving her a tug. "Come on, just once."

Chloe starts to dance by herself, stupidly and half-heartedly, as if dragged onto the floor at a packed club by an overeager friend and trying to get through it as quickly as possible. Lucifer, however, is having none of that. He pulls her into his arms, spinning her light as a snowflake and drawing her close, her chin on his shoulder and his hand on her back, the other engulfing hers, as they whirl and waltz in time to Captain Shakespeare's jaunty gramophone. Chloe can't help it, she feels her face stretch into an almost unbearable smile, as the very sky seems to slow around them, the stars – her sisters, if this is true, and as an only child, she has never had them – peering in excitedly to look. And then she can feel it beyond all dispute, a hot white shine from head to heel, strong and light and pure. Her heart has butterfly wings, and her stomach rushes and leaps, and she has never, never been so happy in her life as she is just then. In his arms, and all the world faded away beyond the circle of the lantern-light, until it is nothing, no one, but them. _Take my hand, I'm a stranger in paradise._

She doesn't believe in fate. Kismet. Destiny. Any of that. She never has.

_Somewhere in space, I hang suspended._

But – and even she cannot deny it, hard as she tries – this moment right now, here, with him, whatever it is, feels an awful lot like it.

* * *

**VII.**

They arrive in Wall at the end of the week. Or rather, the Faerie side of it, which is a bit of a trek from where the _Caspartine_ dropped them off, post-an extremely eventful landing by Captain Shakespeare, who doesn't actually seem to know how to steer the damn thing very well (if the aghast look of the helmsman as he clutches the wheel protectively is any indication). They are disembarked and well-wished by the captain as Chloe thanks him for his kindness, and rolls her eyes tolerantly as he hastily remembers himself and shouts at Lucifer to make sure he doesn't wear that wench out. The two of them step off the gangplank, Lucifer tips the pirates a rakish salute over Chloe's shoulder, and they all "arrr!" one more time, just for good measure. They stand among the green hills, watching the _Caspartine_ take off and rise up into the clouds, and only when it is fully out of sight do they start to walk. According to the weathered wooden signpost they shortly pass, it's five miles to Wall. Almost back.

Chloe tries to ignore the odd ambivalence of her reaction to this – or not even ambivalence, if she's being honest, but flat-out disappointment. Maybe it's only natural. The last time she was here was in her Earth clothes, her Earth life, stumbling into the market after trivia night at the pub and thinking Lucifer was just some local eccentric, intending to walk away and not look back and let that be that. Now she's in the dress and cloak and jewelry that Captain Shakespeare let her keep, fresh off a fortnight of magical adventure and airship travel, having learned that she is actually a fallen star, that the world is so much wider and stranger than she ever knew, and there is still so much of this place she wants to see. Not that she can just disappear from her real life for six months to go on an extended sabbatical to Faerie. Any more, and she might not want to come back at all. Or remember that she ever had a life anywhere else.

They walk in a companionable silence, Lucifer shortening his long strides to stay at her side. He is still in his swaggering pirate getup, with a cylinder of the fresh-bottled lightning that Shakespeare gave him just in case swinging alongside his sword, and her eyes keep flicking to him, as the wind steals curling black tendrils from his ponytail to frame his face. It feels as if there's an hourglass between them, running short of sand far too fast, and Chloe would give anything to make it slow down. Finally she says, "Why is Captain Shakespeare so determined to make his crew think he's such a douche?"

"Douche?" Lucifer looks over at her, not recognizing the word, but clearly understanding that it's supposed to be an insult from how she used it. "Douche? Douuuuuche? Oh, that is excellent. Love the way it just flows trippingly off the tongue. Know many douches, do you? Your former husband, for instance?"

"Dan is not – he does his best," Chloe says. Lucifer has certainly seemed quite interested in the subject of Dan's failings, but that is not what she is presently concerned with. "But Shakespeare, I mean, he's actually a very decent guy who helped us out of a serious jam – "

"A jam which you caused, Detective, with your hijacking of the Babylon candle."

Chloe gives him the evil eye, remembering that she is, of course, going to be _plenty_ happy to leave this twerp behind. "Never mind that. The point is, he came through, he just had to do this jerk act the entire time, or at least when they were watching. Reminded me of. . . you, almost."

"Oh?" Lucifer looks intrigued. "What's my jerk act?"

"Never mind, it's not an act, it's just the way you are. But in his case – "

"Ah, that." Lucifer considers. "Likely because he enjoys dressing up in fancy ladies' clothing and dancing the cancan. Doesn't think it would go well with his reputation as a fearsome, swashbuckling outlaw of the skies."

"He – " Chloe coughs. She _was_ kind of getting the impression that Captain Shakespeare had an inner fabulous side, what with that extensive closet of clothes and accessories, as well as the general mannerisms, but now all she can picture is Robert de Niro dressed in drag, winking and flirting and vamping it up in a lacy petticoat and fan. She chews her lip furiously, as it feels uncharitable to laugh. "There's nothing wrong with that, you know."

"Oh, I'm not the one it matters to, but he is, shall we say, conscious of his crew's expectations." Lucifer shrugs. "Though if you ask me, he's wasting his time. I'm quite sure they already know. But being yourself can be frightening, can't it?"

That catches Chloe off guard. That, she has come to realise, is just like Lucifer: casually delivering some off-the-cuff comment that is actually rather profound or genuinely good advice, and then being completely oblivious about how it could apply to him in any way. She's also thinking that she might know why Captain Shakespeare picked "Oscar" for a first name, but she doesn't say so. Instead, changing the subject to what is weighing most heavily on her mind, she says, "Do you think Amenadiel will be in the village?"

"Possibly." Lucifer gets the wary expression he wears every time they mention his older brother. "I'll hunt him down for you. I don't want you walking around in public, now that the entire bloody country knows there's a star here. My mother isn't the only one who'd snatch you up for her own benefit, so – "

"Yeah," Chloe says, stomach lurching unpleasantly. "I heard that Ferdy the Fence person talking about it to Captain Shakespeare."

Lucifer sniffs disapprovingly, as he apparently has plenty of strong opinions on Ferdy, but refrains from sharing. "Very well, then. We'll get a room at the Slaughtered Prince and I'll – "

"Excuse me, the _what?"_

"Slaughtered Prince. Inn in the village. Rather grim name, yes – I did tell you that Stormholders in the male line have a habit of offing their brothers." Lucifer does not look at all perturbed by this, even as Chloe is still sputtering – this does not exactly sound like the safest place to sleep. But after a five-mile walk, she is definitely ready to sit down _somewhere,_ and if all goes well, she'll be back at Linda's by this time tomorrow, with the absolute hell of a story to tell and hopefully not having caused too much alarm and/or inconvenience in changing her travel arrangements. The thought of being back on modern Earth, with its noise and clutter and technology and steel and lights and crowds, is utterly foreign. Sitting in some dull airport lounge in Heathrow, drinking vending-machine coffee, after soaring among the clouds on Captain Shakespeare's airship, dancing on the deck at sunset. Los Angeles smog and traffic, a line at the Starbucks drive-thru on the way to work, someone else dead, another day, another case. It doesn't even feel like her life any more.

They reach the village just before sunset. It's still crowded, Lucifer has to shoulder through the narrow streets to clear a path, and someone runs into Chloe and almost knocks her flat, causing her to skin her hands on the cobbles breaking her fall, and to learn a lot of Stormholder curses as Lucifer shouts imprecations in the direction of the clumsy arse responsible. He helps her up, and then doesn't let go of her arm the rest of the way to the Slaughtered Prince, which despite the name is a perfectly handsome whitewashed, half-timbered building that probably does not have an axe-murderer lurking in the basement. They get a room, and while Lucifer heads back out in search of Amenadiel, Chloe takes a hot bath. This is not as simple as merely running a tap, since the water has to be heated in cauldrons and hauled slopping up the stairs to be dumped into the huge copper tub, but what the hell. If it's her last night here, she's going to enjoy it.

She soaks for a while, telling herself that she's happy this is all over, then gets out and wraps herself in a towel. She's just started to rub dry when the room door swings open, and Lucifer bursts in without knocking. "Detective, before it goes any more to pot, I think you should – "

Startled, Chloe screeches, loses her grip on the towel, and the next second, she is giving him a full-frontal, head-to-toe appreciation of her assets, which he does not even pretend to look away from in the name of decency. Instead, his face splits in a grin from ear to ear. "Detective! My, my, you've really kept things up since those – what did you call them? – _Hot Tub High School_ days. Well done."

Absolutely mortified, Chloe snatches the towel up, wondering what on earth possessed her to tell him about that. Part of confessing why she left the acting business and became a cop, but she should have known it would backfire. "Lucifer! I am _naked!"_

"So I very much see, my dear. I can be too if you want, I'm an equal-opportunity sort of gent." He reaches for the buttons of his shirt. "Decided you can't resist me?"

"I was taking a bath. Not – Lucifer, don't you dare take your clothes off, I will smack you." Chloe re-knots the towel tightly, face still burning, as he looks crestfallen and drops his hands. "Did no one ever teach you to knock, or is barging in on women while they're changing your go-to move? Besides, did you find your brother or not?"

"I – yes." He clears his throat. She notices he has a blossoming black eye and a split lip, as if the brotherly reunion was more a bit of a punch-up. "He was rather displeased, but I've dragged him here for the moment. Get dressed – or don't, you could give him a heart attack and trust me, it would be very funny – and I'll take you down."

Chloe isn't entirely sure she wants to face a potentially stabby and certainly pissed prince of Stormhold right off the bat, especially if Lucifer has been literally throttling him into compliance, but this might be her only chance to get answers about her past, and even her inadvertent flashing of Lucifer has to be forgotten. Forcing him back behind the carved wooden screen to wait, she dries off in a hurry and hauls back on her dress and cloak, combing her fingers through her damp hair and twisting it into a knot. Then she emerges and follows Lucifer down the stairs, to a small room at the back of the tavern. There is someone else inside, pacing like an angry lion, who turns abruptly when they enter.

The first sight of Prince Amenadiel is surprising. Chloe doesn't know what she was expecting, but he is tall, muscular, bald, and black, with a neat goatee and solemn dark eyes, one of which also looks as if someone has punched it recently. She's about to ask, but decides that they are, after all, quasi-immortal magical/demonic/faerie beings, they can look however they please. Amenadiel continues to regard his brother with considerable mistrust, even as he inclines his head politely to Chloe. "Miss Decker."

She supposes they have met before, when she was only a very small girl, which she of course does not remember.. She doesn't quite like being called "miss," as it is likewise little-girlish and she is a grown woman, thirty-five, but now is not the time to quibble over nomenclature. It occurs to her that she doesn't know what to call him – she's not choking out a _Your Royal Highness_ or anything like that – so she says only, awkwardly, "Hello."

Amenadiel casts a significant look at Lucifer as if expecting him to leave the room. Lucifer folds his arms and remains exactly where he is.

"Whatever you have to say," Chloe says levelly, "you can say to both of us."

"Do you think that's wise? Trusting _him?"_

"I've been traveling with him for the last few weeks. I trust him a lot more than, say, you."

Amenadiel smiles faintly, acknowledging the point. He is wearing a handsome high-necked tunic of grey velvet and a cloak in a matching shade, trimmed with fur. "I've been looking for you. You need to leave this realm before my – before our mother catches up to you. Did he tell you why?"

"Yes." Chloe looks back at him coolly. "Yes, he told me everything."

Amenadiel raises an eyebrow. "Good, then. You know that if you stay, you risk undoing everything we have struggled to defend against these many years. And of course, this world is not your home, so I'm sure you won't find any difficulty in leaving it and – "

"Excuse me." Chloe doesn't much like this sanctimonious look-how-much-I've-done-for-you take on things. "It's not my home because you and your father made the decision to send me away and wipe my memory, and probably were never going to fill me in if you could possibly avoid it. What about my p-parents? Did you magically mind-wipe them too, so they couldn't interfere with any of your plans? Because what did my life matter, against the _greater good?"_ Her voice breaks slightly on the last two words. She can't help it.

Amenadiel looks stunned, as he has clearly not expected this accusation. He shoots a look at the door as if thinking about cutting the interview short and leaving, but Lucifer shifts his weight, blocking him. At last he says, "John and Penelope know – knew – who you are. I told them not to tell you until you were at least twenty-one, so you could be an adult when this was put on you, not a child. I doubted you'd believe it, or that you would come back. Or if you did, that Mother would still be imprisoned, and it would not matter. But. . ." His voice trails off.

"But," Lucifer repeats harshly. "You arsed it up as usual. She did come back, and Mummy Dearest did escape, and now you're left scrambling to fix it. Just like you to – "

"I'm not the only one of our brothers looking for Chloe!" Amenadiel glares at Lucifer. "There are others. Have an idea that there's a way to permanently solve this problem, rather than risking her stumbling back in again later. Know what I mean?"

At that, Lucifer goes very still. Then, half in a growl, he breathes, "Do they?"

Chloe doesn't know exactly what this means, though the way Amenadiel said "permanently" gives her some idea and a cold shiver down her spine, but she's never seen that expression on Lucifer's face, and would prefer not to see it again. He looks unspeakably, icily furious – but also scared, and she's never thought until now that he even has the capacity to be frightened. Yes, he's said that his brothers are a homicidal bunch, but that never seemed to bother him – at least when it was about him. About her. . . that appears to be quite a different story.

"Which one?" Lucifer says, still in that growl. "Perchance?"

Amenadiel eyes him suspiciously. "Uriel."

This makes Lucifer swear, with great invention. He looks as if he's on the brink of rushing out to do – Chloe doesn't know what, but something. Amenadiel is also looking as if he is about to blow this pop stand, and in a rush, before she loses her chance, Chloe says, "My father – he died when I was nineteen, he was shot, I thought it was just a robbery gone bad, but if it had anything to do with this – with _this_ world – "

"No," Amenadiel says. "As far as I know."

That is something of a relief, at least, but it still leaves Chloe with the question of why her mother didn't tell her on her twenty-first birthday, if that was indeed what Amenadiel asked her to do. But then it occurs to her that Penelope must have been scared. Scared out of her mind, in fact. She had already lost her husband, and now if she told her daughter, her only child, about her fantastical origins, there was an excellent chance that Chloe would run off here, either get killed as well or just never come home. She's already had to struggle against the desire to stay here forever, and it's only been a few weeks. The risk of having her heart eaten with fava beans and a nice Chianti is also quite clear. Penelope must have hoped that if she didn't, if Chloe never found out, she could keep her. Knowing it was wrong, but rationalizing it to herself. _The greater good._

At that, Chloe feels her heart twist hard. She always struggled far more with her relationship with her mother than she did with her father, and this gives her a poignant, painful glimpse into the fact that her mother might indeed love her more than she has ever known. But it makes her wonder if her dad, her hero, would have told her, done the right thing, or if he too would have been too frightened of losing her. Amenadiel. Penelope. Dan. All these people, however good their intentions, have lied to her and misled her and kept her in the dark in the name of ensuring her safety, of maintaining some literal celestial balance, of shielding themselves from having to face the consequences. The only person in her life who has never done that, who is frankly and sometimes shockingly honest with her, who has only acted to protect her and is too damn selfish to give a single shit about any of these abstract ideas of higher morality, is standing behind her, one dark eyebrow arched cuttingly at Amenadiel. No wonder it's been like being doused in cold water, being around him. Woken up, out of the comfortable dreamy haze that everyone else seems to want to keep her in. Knowing, for better or worse, the simple and utter truth.

"Okay," Chloe says, since Lucifer and Amenadiel both seem to be waiting for her to say something. "So. . . what? Are you going to Obliviate me now?"

"I. . . no." Amenadiel looks tired. "I do, however, think it's best that you go back to your – the other world, and stay there. Go home. We can't guarantee your safety here, and if our mother gets hold of you, much worse will happen. I'll let you have a chance to say goodbye, but. . ."

"How generous of you." Lucifer's voice is cold and flat. "Let us have a chance to say two words before you bundle her back off again, never to return, just like you did the first time. You know, I think I'm regretting bringing you here – "

"You didn't _bring_ me here, Luci, you _ambushed_ me here, and why are you going to all this trouble for – "

"No more fighting!" Chloe gets between the brothers, who are glaring each other's heads afire (barely metaphorically) and adopting the voice she uses to arrest suspects, as she pushes them apart like scrapping kids on the playground. Not that they are kids – they are both unfairly tall and probably freakishly strong. "Look, we already knew that the best thing was for me to go back. That's what we planned. That's what we have to do. Just. . . make sure your mom doesn't burst in for the next twelve hours or so. Besides, we don't have a choice."

Lucifer and Amenadiel are still glowering at each other, but the sense of this appears to grudgingly pervade their very thick skulls, and they slouch off in loathing alliance to do as she says. As they go, she overhears Amenadiel ask, very unexpectedly, "How – how's Maze?"

"Pining into her pillow, crying every night, because she can't bear to live without you."

"Really?"

"No, of course not, you nobhead. In fact, I need to find out if she even survived Mum's delightful little attack on Lux. And I don't suppose it's coincidence that Mum knew exactly where to find me, and Delilah thinking she was the star, in all of Faerie? After all those years in prison? Have anything to say for yourself on that front, _bro?"_

"I. . . look, Luci, she. . ." Amenadiel blows out a heavy breath. "Said she wanted to make it up with me, and the rest of her children. You know how she can get to us, know what buttons to push. She wanted to know where you might be found, and I thought it was. . ."

The door shuts behind them, cutting off Lucifer's undoubtedly heated reply, and Chloe cautiously presses an ear to the wood to make sure they aren't going at it in the hall again. Once they're gone, she blows out a slow breath of her own, feeling absolutely shitty. Well, then. Guess this is how it ends. Not with a bang, etc., etc. The brothers will spend the night bickering on guard duty, she'll sit in her empty room, and tomorrow morning she will return to Wall. Be starting the trek down to London. Going further and further away. And memory charm or not, she will start to forget. Wake up another few weeks from now, and this will all be just a dream.

Chloe pays a visit to the front of the tavern, gets a few flagons of mead (very medieval of her, really) and carries them back up to the room. It's a bit of an acquired taste at first, thick and honey-sweet with a slightly sour, fermented flavor after you swallow, but it is good, and more importantly, it is very strong. After a cup or two, Chloe is feeling just about out of general fucks given about the situation. She's let her hair down from its damp knot and is swaying drunkenly around the bedchamber, belting a bad version of some Kelly Clarkson angst-pop anthem, when she hears a noise at the threshold, turns, and sees Lucifer standing there, blinking at her in utter confusion. "Detective? Are you –?"

"If that door's open, you better walk on through it." Chloe saunters toward him. She's just about decided, without remembering how or when, that she is entitled to do something dumb and reckless, since this is all going to be gone anyway. She reaches him, as he takes her by the hand and attempts to steer her back to the settee. "Ugh. Lucifer. How'd I even end _up_ in this mess?"

"Because you're a kind person who puts the needs of others above her own. Horrible irony, but there you go." He sits down next to her. "Hence why you're voluntarily choosing exile again."

"But you don't, do you?" Chloe turns toward him, with limpid, imploring eyes. "You just – take. Whatever you want."

With that, she leans forward, hands on his shoulders as she climbs onto his chest, intending to kiss him. And after that, well, you know. He hasn't shut up this entire time about his burning desire to do the nasty with her, she feels like flipping the bird at the universe somehow and he is an excellent assistant in this regard, and as noted, nothing she does tonight really matters, because it all gets zapped away in the morning. Maybe she will be able to hold onto this memory slightly longer, so she doesn't lose all of it. Probably hate herself for it, but whatever. She doesn't care. She's drunk and more than a little heartbroken. He's here. He can put her up on his wall of conquests later, she doesn't care. Won't be around to see it.

But as she chases his mouth with hers, he most unexpectedly leans backward, denying her even this one minute of bad judgment. Her fists bunch on his shirt. "What's – whas' happening?"

"It would seem. . ." He reaches up a hand, trying to gently loosen her grip. "I'm saying no."

"But why? Oh God, what am I doing? Drunk, throwing myself at you?" She blinks hard, and shakes her head dazedly. Thinks again of Penelope, and how she didn't tell her. "It's something my mother would do."

"Come now, Detective. Come here. We don't all turn into our parents, do we?" He settles her against him, snuggled against his chest, his arm around her and her head on his shoulder. She feels warm and heavy and exhausted and _safe,_ that way she always oddly feels with him, and a deep haze is creeping swiftly over her. He is still talking, but he's always talking, and she just wants to wish the world away, wants this over, get it over with like ripping off a bandage, doesn't want the pain. Doesn't want.

Doesn't want.

Doesn't want.

* * *

**VIII.**

When the detective is snoring wetly, tucked up in the inn bed as a light rain begins to mist the windows, Lucifer pulls on a hooded cloak, buckles on his sword, descends the stairs as quietly as a shadow, looks both ways, and slips out into the night. He did a good job of putting Amenadiel off the scent earlier, but he considers his job only half done. If Uriel is lurking around here somewhere, if he's got Chloe in his sights. . . he's as stubborn as a dog with a bone, very beholden to his particular ideas of justice, and willing to do whatever it takes to make sure their mother doesn't regain power. If that involves making sure Chloe's heart can't ever be used, by getting cleanly rid of her so they don't have a repeat of this fiasco in five or ten years if she comes back – not that she would, and Lucifer is being wildly optimistic to think that Faerie would be anything the same if his mother took over the rule of Stormhold again – there are other spells, enchantments, sacrifices to hold her over while she waits for a star, another one could fall bloody tomorrow, you never know –

Lucifer's thoughts are racing over and over, and can't seem to settle into coherence or sense. All he knows is that he has to catch up to Uriel now, and that waiting until the morning may well be too late. He doesn't know precisely what the wee bastard is plotting, but if he – if Chloe – if anything happens to her – she would never have come back to this world at all if he hadn't opened his fool mouth and dared her, all but dragged her – his fault, _his –_

He's traveling fast (well, it helps that he stole one of the black horses from Amenadiel's ridiculous carriage – he doesn't need six of them anyway) and soon leaves the village behind, thundering across the rugged countryside with the non-fallen stars beaming coldly down on him from above. Whatever foxhole Uriel has burrowed down, he'll turf him out. His pestilential little brother prefers to operate this way, in the shadows, nudging things just so until they topple as inexorably as a chain of dominoes, until it's impossible to say what was circumstance and what was chance. He won't give up. He never does.

At last, Lucifer spots a dim glow ahead, and shortly reins up at a lonely crossroads inn. There is a horse tied up outside that he recognizes as a fine Stormholder stallion, directly from the royal stables, and knows he's in the right place. He swings down and strides inside, making no attempt to disguise his entrance. "So! Uriel! This is almost a bloody family reunion, isn't it?"

A cloaked figure in the corner starts, then turns, looks up from his drink, and gives him a very cool smile. Prince Uriel, youngest of the seven sons of King Deus and Queen Lilith of Stormhold, is shorter than either of his elder brothers, with thick dark hair and a slightly beaked nose, clever and reserved and calculating eyes, as he regards Lucifer's sudden appearance without apparent surprise. "Brother. I knew you'd be coming."

"How? Playing around with the runes again?"

Uriel shrugs. "Perhaps you're just predictable. You'd hate that, wouldn't you? Though I did stop on the way to ask a certain fearsome airship pirate – or at least what the world _thinks_ is a fearsome airship pirate – but Twinkletoes wouldn't talk."

"Bloody good for him. I hope Shakespeare kicked your arse black and blue while wearing a frilly pink petticoat."

Uriel's nostrils flare, as it is clear that if not Shakespeare, _someone_ did some arse-kicking, presumably Shakespeare's crew, and he had to flee post-haste from the _Caspartine_ in rather less triumphant glory than he was expecting. "Never mind all that. You don't need to tell me why you're here, though, because I know that too. About the star, isn't it."

"You said that, not me." Bloody hell, Lucifer has forgotten just how much he hates being wrong-footed by this insolent imp. "What the devil are you planning to do to her?"

Uriel shrugs again. "We all have the same aim, don't we? Preventing Mum from regaining her power, weaseling her way back into the kingdom, renewing her thrall over Dad, and plunging us into a new war. And if you're not going to help with that, well. . ."

"WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO TO HER?"

Uriel blinks, then grins. "It's pretty obvious that you care for this little star of yours a _tad_ more than you do for Mum, I have to say. But it's not what I'm going to do to her, Lucifer. It's about what you will. About, in fact, what you have already done."

Lucifer turns cold from head to heel. "What are you – "

Uriel holds up something small and sparkling. "Recognise this?"

For a moment, he doesn't – and then he does. Chloe's necklace, the one with the enchanted diamond, the one she's never taken off. The protection charm that enables her to cross into the non-magical human world, and live there. The one without, as soon as she steps foot over the Wall tomorrow, not even having noticed that it's gone – would you pay special attention to see if you still had your arm or your leg, when it's always been part of you? – she will die. Turn straightaway into dust, with no heart to be eaten. Problem solved. Case closed.

_She will die._

"How did you – " Lucifer's voice barely sounds like his own. _"How did you get that?"_

Uriel smirks. Twirls it around his finger, then pockets it. "Afraid I may have accidentally bumped into her, back in the village."

"That was – " Lucifer is speechless. Thought it was just some berk not bothering to look where he was going, but this, but _this –_ "You miserable thieving git, GIVE IT BACK!"

"Sorry." Uriel's eyes burn. "See? She'll wake up tomorrow, and you'll be gone. Ran off, just like she figured you would. She'll be confused and angry and hurt, so she'll decide to just go back to her world, since you left without saying goodbye. Head for the Wall, and. . . poof." He waves a hand. "Stardust."

"You – " Lucifer takes a lunging step at him, but Uriel adroitly darts out of the way. He glances around – if the other patrons are taking notice of this, there could be more trouble. But there aren't any. Just a rather goaty-looking innkeeper and a ginger-haired barmaid, neither of whom seem keen on getting into the middle of this confrontation. In fact, they're backing away as fast as they can, as Lucifer's hand drops to his sword. After all that practice with Captain Shakespeare, he's feeling quite the thing. "I said, give it back. _Now."_

"Do you really think I'm going to do that?" Uriel plunges a hand into his cloak, and comes out with a knife. Not just any knife, but one of their elder sister's special ones. Princess Azrael of Stormhold has always been more terrifying than all her brothers put together. "I'm going to destroy it."

"You idiot, you –" Provocation tendered, Lucifer goes for his sword. The unsheathing rings like a thunderbolt, as Uriel eyes him with savage glee. Then puts back the knife, and draws his own sword.

"Sure," he breathes. "We can do this the hard way."

Without another word, Lucifer goes for him. Uriel's blade flashes up to intercept, as he twists away, but can't escape Lucifer's slashing overhand, as the spelled steel sparks and screeches where it tangles. Back, forth, over, under, high, low, left, right, they duel furiously across the inn, sending tables and chairs tumbling, tankards clanging, glass breaking, as Lucifer keeps trying to get close enough to snatch the necklace from Uriel's cloak, but can't. They battle up the stairs, onto the landing, dodging and ducking in the close quarters, swearing and slashing – until Uriel gets lucky, catches Lucifer dead to rights under the chin with the hilt of his sword, and sends him somersaulting over the railing, crashing into the antlered chandelier and then straight into the floor below. Lucifer hits with crushing, bruising, blinding force – he's barely conscious, can't see, can't breathe, knows that Uriel is drawing out Azrael's knife to destroy the necklace and –

"Hey. Why don't you pick on a girl?"

It _can't_ be –

Lucifer's reeling vision can barely keep up as a third figure stalks out of the shadows, dressed in leather and more leather, brandishing her dark curved daggers – _Maze._ She's alive, she must have been looking for him, escaping the destruction of Lux and tracking him across the country, which can't have been easy when he has been mostly above it, rather than on it. She faces Uriel in cool defiance, as he seems momentarily taken aback at this new challenger, then raises his sword. "Come on, little demon. You think you can match against a prince of Stormhold?"

Maze, never a woman to waste words when a punch will do, takes the opportunity to attack like a whirling murder dervish, as Lucifer struggles to sit upright. Blood is running in his eyes, his head is ringing, he wonders if he's broken something in the plunge, though in the ordinary course of things he is impervious to such common injuries. Uriel and Maze are slugging it out, the world is still cartwheeling around him – it won't snap back into place no matter how hard he pushes at it, and all he can hear is his terror, screaming in his head. Maze is putting up a terrific fight, but she's on her heels as well – then the next instant she's flying across the taproom and landing with an almighty crash in the glass rack, and Uriel regards his handiwork with grim satisfaction. Then he takes out Chloe's necklace, and the knife. "Well. Since you made this really difficult, I don't think I'll stop with just getting rid of her protection charm. I'll make sure she turns into dust, no matter if I have to drag her over the Wall myself, and you can't stop – "

Lucifer doesn't know where the strength comes from. Just that he throws it all into one titanic leap, and flashes across the darkened, smashed-up taproom, wrenching their sister's knife from Uriel's hand. Swings his arm back, and buries it point, half, hilt-deep into his brother's heart.

Uriel jerks. His legs give out, and he collapses, as Lucifer catches him reflexively, madly, in his arms. His eyes are turning glassy. "I. . ." he breathes. "I did not see that coming."

His head falls back. His blood laps across the sawn boards of the floor. Lucifer's hands are covered with it. He didn't – he didn't _mean –_ now he's just like the rest of them, after so long priding himself on being different – _the princes of Stormhold kill their brothers –_ it's practically a joke, they always do, it's inescapable, inexorable. He – here – _Uriel –_

His hand opens slackly on the blade. He looks up in utter, unbearable horror.

"Lucifer." Maze is trying to get him to his feet. "Lucifer, this place reeks of Lilim magic – I think it's a trap, your mother wanted to know where the star was, Uriel would have led her right to it by accident, and I'm not interested in fighting off another black knight attack. She's gone, she's gone to the village, if she gets the star, you know what will – "

Her words clatter emptily off his ears. The necklace gleams in Uriel's cloak pocket, cold and stark as a star itself. Lucifer cannot touch it with these bloody hands. He would only profane it.

He is at last, beyond all dispute, a monster.

* * *

**IX.**

Chloe wakes up feeling like ten tons of crap in a one-ton bag. The sunlight pierces her head like a drill as she struggles to screw one eye open, feeling as if sitting up might dislodge her abruptly from the face of the earth and send her corkscrewing wildly into the void. The apparent other pertinent feature of mead is that it gives you the actual hangover from hell – is that why Vikings chugged it like water to prove they were real men, one wonders? But fascinating historical drunk miscellanea aside, Chloe has larger concerns. The last thing she really remembers last night was the Kelly Clarkson woeful karaoke, and then Lucifer walked in on her, and she – and she –

Oh _God._

Ignoring the spear of nauseous lightning that strikes her from head to toe and makes her want to retch her brains out, Chloe bolts upright, gasping and grimacing at the effort, as she realizes that she is naked in bed, and he is nowhere in sight. Well, mostly naked – her dress appears to have been removed by a blind troll, and her shift and drawers (drawers, god, what a stupid name for underwear – it makes her sound like a cabinet) are still more or less in place. What, did Lucifer not even bother to undress her properly before he took her up on her incredibly ill-advised offer? Wow, some romantic. She hopes her insensately sozzled carcass was an _awesome_ lay, then, though if he's made it even worse by just gathering up his things and vanishing into thin air –

As Chloe is really about to lose it, however, the nearly-drowned voice of reason in the back of her head speaks up, pointing out that while she indisputably feels like the morning after a lot of drinking, she doesn't feel like the morning after a lot of drinking and sex. She had that a few times in the _Hot Tub High School_ days, unfortunately, and she knows what that feels like. The only indent in the bed is hers, there are no mysterious marks or love bites or bruises or anything _else_ on her, and she has been known to rip off her own clothes when she gets too hot, especially if she was engaged in a sloshed battle of wills with the corset and just wanted the damn thing off. She doesn't ache in the bits that should be aching, pleasantly or otherwise, and she doesn't even have a hazy memory of a really good orgasm to take the edge off. So. . . what? Lucifer just pityingly tucked her up in bed like an eighteen-year-old spring-breaker who needed to recover from her first encounter with tequila, and split town before she woke up and either of them had to endure the embarrassment of talking about it?

Wow. Classy. Not quite as bad as if he slept with her while she was a wreck, even if she did throw herself at him, but still something that makes a surge of anger rise in Chloe's chest, twisting around her lungs until she almost can't breathe. She was an idiot, sure, but she almost thought that despite his jerkish nature and selfishness and whole magical-playboy act, there was some kind of real connection between them, that they had gotten past the walls and the jokes and the. . . but no. Apparently, resolutely not. She's made the oldest mistake in the book. She's the girl who thought she was _different_ for the player, because he made her feel special. Because he literally does that with everyone, and then throws them away when he's bored and goes to the next gullible sap. After all her assurances to Linda and to herself that she was smarter than this, that she was above all this obvious bullshit, look at her.

Furiously smudging away something that feels suspiciously like tears, Chloe ignores further head-lightnings, gets out of bed, and starts roughly pulling on her clothes. She might cause a stir in Wall walking in looking like one of Those Weirdoes, but she'll just hide in a phonebooth and call Linda to pick her up, assure her that she hasn't been strangled and had her body dumped behind a windmill somewhere. She'll say she was at a fancy costume party, if anyone actually asks. They probably won't. It's not _too_ out there. People wear dresses. She's just stalling. As if she's going to look out the window and see Lucifer running back like the airport scene in _Love Actually._ Yeah. No.

Chloe pulls herself together, leaves the room, turns the key in at the desk, and emerges from the Slaughtered Prince into the pale spring morning, torn between taking final looks at Faerie and wanting to just get out of here as fast as possible. She knows the way back to Wall from here, it isn't far, and her pace speeds up as she reaches the top of the hill and descends toward it, looking the same as ever, the break in the old stones where she passed through the first time. The brief and horrible thought occurs to her that Lucifer was wrong about the time differential, and she's about to emerge years or decades or worse after when she went in, but she can't see any futuristic robot colony or artificial satellite hanging in the sky, so there's that. She has just reached the wall proper now, and pauses a moment, one last moment, then starts to take a step –

Someone catches her wrist from behind, scaring the life out of her, and for a mad, impossible moment, she is sure that it is Lucifer. But no. She turns to see a striking, statuesque woman perhaps in her forties, dressed in green and black, with honey-gold hair twisted in an elegant knot and an expression of deep concern. "No! You can't cross the Wall, you'll – you'll die!"

"What are you – " Chloe struggles reflexively to free herself, but the woman's grip is very strong. "What – how did you – "

"Your protection charm." The woman looks at her queerly. "You don't have it on. If you go back into the human world without it, you'll turn to dust."

 _What_ the – Aghast, Chloe fumbles at her neck, and discovers to her further horror that the woman is right. Her necklace, the one she's never taken off, is missing, and she hasn't even noticed. How long has it – ? Oh God, did Lucifer skim it off her while she was unconscious and use it for some sordid little deal of his? A star's enchanted diamond must be close to priceless. It seems impossible that she just happened to lose it, the chain snapped somewhere, when it never has for the rest of her time on Earth. So – what, did he not just abandon her, but implicitly leave her to die? No. No, he wouldn't, he couldn't – but he was the only one who knew what it was, that she had it, that she –

"Let me help you," the woman says. "I know a fair bit about magic, let me see if I can't possibly fashion you a replacement."

"I – " Chloe is wary. "I can't pay you."

"Oh, no, you don't need to pay me." Still keeping hold of Chloe's wrist, the woman waves her free hand, and a black coach rolls up, apparently on its own accord, its heavy wheels leaving muddy ruts in the wet grass. It looks rather like Amenadiel's, actually. "My name is Charlotte, I was – well, these days I'm just a simple innkeeper's wife. Let me take you back, and we'll see what we can do."

"That's kind of you, but – " Chloe hasn't forgotten that warning from Captain Shakespeare about there being plenty of people who want to harm her, and she's pretty sure that accepting rides from strangers is just as bad an idea in Faerie as it is on Earth. Worse, probably. "I'll just – "

"No, dear. I insist."

Chloe pretends to agree, and takes a step toward the coach – then rips her wrist out of the woman's grasp and starts to run, which is quite a chore in long skirts and on boggy, slippery ground. She doesn't get a dozen yards before something punches her very hard in the small of the back, wraps stinging tendrils around her legs, and she rolls over to see a lash of fire curling up them, which Charlotte appears to be spinning from her fingers. She cracks it again and hauls Chloe kicking and struggling through the mud, then lifts her with one hand and opens the coach door, shoving her against it. "Ride inside, my dear, or be dragged behind. Your choice."

Chloe starts to sputter some choice _words_ at her, if that's how they are playing this, but Charlotte gives her another shove, and she topples into the musty, gloomy interior, still covered in mud and grass. There are two benches upholstered in rather moth-eaten green velvet, one of which she perches on with great hauteur. Charlotte climbs in after her and wedges the door shut, clicks her fingers briskly, and the coach starts to move, rocking and swaying as if the invisible horses (do they have thestrals here, Chloe wonders?) are at full gallop. Charlotte looks older than she did a minute ago, face more deeply wrinkled and hair streaked with white, and while Chloe of course is a total amateur at identifying the power levels for sorcerer/esses, if this is actually a humble innkeeper's wife, she'll eat her fancy petticoat. Surely it can't –

At that moment, a horrible suspicion comes over her, one she really isn't sure she wants confirmed. As the coach continues to rattle and bump, she stares at her captor and breathes, _"Lilith?"_

The other woman smiles. "Queen, darling," she says. _"Queen_ Lilith. But frankly, I don't like having my true name spoken by you grubby little mortals – I suppose you aren't one, you're a star, but you've been raised by and living among them, their stink is all over you. You, therefore, may continue to call me Charlotte."

"Look, you – " Chloe has had to negotiate with crazies as part of her job before, but always with a trained response team at her back, and never with her own neck on the line. "You can't just eat my heart."

Charlotte looks surprised. "Of course I can."

"There's no way immortality is worth that, if you – " Chloe makes a stab in the dark, something she heard Amenadiel say last night. "If you want to reunite with your sons, what will they think if you do it this way? They'll hate you, they – "

"I very much doubt you know anything about me _or_ my children." Charlotte's voice is cool and flat. "But I am willing to do whatever it takes to be with them again, and I can't do that if I am weak and old and powerless, can I? It's nothing _personal,_ dear. But since it is the – "

"Lucifer won't let you," Chloe blurts out, before she can stop herself. She then wants to bite her own tongue off.

" _Lucifer?"_ That has indisputably gotten Charlotte's attention. She leans forward. "You know Lucifer? How? Ah, wait, yes. It was his tavern my knights attacked, looking for you. I suppose that is _slightly_ awkward, but he'll soon see that it was for the best, and – "

"You killed his friend Delilah, thinking she was me. Just for a start. I don't think he's going to be too interested in – "

"Come now, dear, that was just a silly human." Charlotte waves an airy hand. "They die so easily, you know. That's what they were designed to do. And besides, if Lucifer cared for you so much, why were you about to cross the Wall, alone and without your charm, looking as if you couldn't wait to be gone? Why wasn't he with you? Why didn't he stop you?"

Chloe opens her mouth – and then shuts it, as Charlotte has of course just struck exactly at the heart of everything she was thinking just that morning. She's deluding herself to think that Lucifer even has a clue where she is, much less has any inclination to lift a finger to rescue her. Probably thinks that was fun and now it's time to seduce a brunette, just for variety. The thought makes her feel as if someone has punched her in the stomach. She's going to try to get out of this, if there's any way for her to match against a centuries-old demonic witch-queen with incredible power, because she has a life and a job and a daughter to get back to. She'll fight for Trixie. Lucifer can go fuck himself.

There is no apparent way to start until they get to wherever they are going, however, which isn't likely to be much better. Chloe sits tensely until the carriage starts to descend into what looks like a vast quarry, rock walls hollowed out into a massive open pit, with some sort of formidable stone palace at the bottom. The coach rolls to a halt before it, and Charlotte marches her out, through the heavy carved doors, and then inside to a long, dim, high-ceilinged hall, hung with dusty chandeliers and lined with mirrors and animal cages and shadowed grottoes. A grand staircase leads up to a stone table that looks hideously like the sacrificial altar, and Chloe looks back and forth for someone, anyone else. "Weren't you supposed to have sisters? Two sisters?"

"So you're not _entirely_ ignorant." Charlotte sounds mildly impressed. "I did, dear, I did. But we were only able to build up enough strength to get one of us out of the prison where my husband cast us, and of course, that did have to be me. I promised them that when I captured the star, cut out her heart, and restored myself to my full power and beauty, I would of course go back and free them. So, see. You're a gift to our family in many ways."

Chloe is about to say that she doesn't care – and by the look on Charlotte's face, she's pretty sure that she has no intention of doing any such thing – when a furtive movement by the filthy window catches her eye. She tries to look without being too obvious, half-thinking she imagined it, as she is more concerned with finding something heavy to hit Charlotte with – if being a star was the least bit of use, now would be the time for it to manifest. Can't she, what, smite Charlotte with the force of a thousand fiery suns? Call down a meteor? Or just –

Then the movement comes again. Chloe is less sure she imagined it this time. And for a split second – confusingly, impossibly, since the woman hates her guts – she thinks she recognizes it.

Maze.

Chloe's endangered heart skips a beat. There is no real reason she can think of for Maze to be here, sneaking around outside the palace, unless – of course, she _could_ be here to help Charlotte tie her down and gouge out her innards for gourmet dining, but she has gotten the sense that there is very little love lost between them. So if Maze is here, does that mean –

Chloe doesn't have time to ruminate on this, however. Charlotte clicks her fingers again, she is bodily hoisted into the air as if on a meat hook, and sent skidding toward the stone table. A black glass knife glitters evilly on it, clearly the same kind of weapon that was used to kill Delilah, but Chloe cannot take pride in this successful exercise of forensic aptitude when it's about to be her turn in a minute. Leather straps spring into existence, binding her painfully to the stone, and she twists and kicks but can't loosen them a single inch. There is nothing for it. She's completely overmatched. So this is it, she's just going to die after all, not by turning to dust but by having her heart cut out of her chest like some gruesome Aztec sacrifice, some –

And just then, the doors at the end of the hall burst open.

Charlotte, who has been reaching for the knife, is distracted, as is Chloe, who turns her head madly just in time to –

What the _hell –_

Lucifer, Maze, and Amenadiel charge in at a dead run, looking as mud-splattered and road-worn as if they too have been riding all night, and without further ado, Maze throws a dagger. It hisses past Charlotte's head and clatters just a few feet away from Chloe, and she redoubles her struggles – if she can get hold of it, slice her bonds –

"MOTHER!" Lucifer roars, voice echoing among all the stone, dancing off and off like a thousand ghosts of itself. He looks quite mad. "DON'T YOU _DARE!"_

"Boys!" Charlotte turns to face her sons with an entreating smile, attention momentarily distracted from Chloe, who feels her stomach turn over. She doesn't know how it's possible that he's here, that all three of them are here, but there is the faintest, the smallest chance that everything she has thought since she woke up alone this morning is wrong, and that fires her in a way she can't prepare for or defend against. She twists and writhes and heaves, fingers groping at the dagger which is still just out of her reach, as Charlotte starts to descend the stairs. "You're just in time. Once I cut out the star's heart, there will be plenty for all of us, and we'll be stronger than we've ever been. We'll all go back to Stormhold together, and then your father – "

"You know we can't let you do that, Mother." It's Amenadiel who speaks, stepping forward. "Untie the star and come with us quietly. We don't have to – "

"What? Hurt me? You're not going to hurt me." Charlotte looks almost confused. "I know it's been a long time, I know things are different, but I still want to be your mother. We just – "

"Not like this." Amenadiel continues to advance, hands outstretched. "This isn't the right way. You can't kill her."

"Yes," Charlotte says, as bemused as she was when Chloe suggested to her in the coach that murder and cannibalism might not be the way to solve her problems. "I can."

Amenadiel shoots a sidelong look at Lucifer and Maze, who have split to either side of the staircase and started to climb it, then back at his mother. "You _can't_ – "

Charlotte sighs, makes a flicking gesture as if swatting a fly, and Maze is thrown bodily back down the stairs, doing a somersault and landing hard. She turns toward Lucifer – who, Chloe can see at this range, is covered with blood in addition to mud and road-wear, and wonders for a minute if he is in fact here to do – she doesn't know what, but nothing good. He looks much less human than he normally does, though it's impossible to say exactly how. Just like the air's not behaving as it should, as if the force of his presence, and his anger, is pulling the normal warp and weft of reality askew. He reaches for Maze's dagger, almost gets it, and –

"I told you to wait until Mummy was finished," Charlotte says, sounding aggravated. She clicks her fingers, evidently intending to bind Lucifer with more of the leather straps, but his hand flashes up, knocking them away, and there's a crash of breaking glass as several of the mirrors explode instead. Amenadiel is helping up Maze, who gives him a searing look as if she does _not_ need his help, but is prevented from further editorials by the clear urgency of the situation. There is a thump and creak as several statues start to move, stepping off their plinths and raising their stone axes and swords, and Amenadiel and Maze are encircled by them. Amenadiel draws his sword, Maze her remaining dagger, as the animals in the cages croon and keen and screech.

"There. That should keep them out of my hair for a moment. Now, as I said." Charlotte turns back to Lucifer, reaching for the glass knife. "Why don't we – "

Lucifer's eyes are black pits. "Mother, I swear. Lay a hand on her, and I will _rip –_ "

"Oh, so you _do_ care for her?" Charlotte looks intrigued, as Chloe continues to try to work up any slack in the bindings. "She seemed to think there was indeed a chance you would attempt to stop me. But son, just think. Now you can leave this – _this._ Stormhold will be ours to reshape, to rule, however we like. You know how unjust it was that you were thrown out in the first place. Come home. Come home with me, and – "

"Stormhold is not my home." Lucifer's gaze remains fixed on her. "I don't intend to go back."

"Lucifer, honey. Don't be foolish. Come with me, and – "

Just then, there is an explosion from beneath the balcony, and stone limbs fly everywhere as Maze goes to town on the statues. Amenadiel has his hands full with several more, and Charlotte's attention is distracted. Lucifer dives past her, but as he grabs for Maze's dagger, it spins out of reach and down a crack in the floorstones, and he swears, fumbling after it, but can't find it. Fires are bursting into life up and down the hall, summoned by the power of Charlotte's gathering magic, and a chandelier plummets and shatters in a shower of lethal crystalline droplets. The animals are yowling and screeching and clawing and biting at the bars of the cages, and as Chloe twists once more, her gaze meets Lucifer's. She jerks her head, pointing him toward the glass knife that Charlotte has dropped, and –

At the last instant, Charlotte remembers it, whirls, and snatches it from beneath his fingers, backing him off like an animal trainer with an unruly lion in the circus ring. The moment of standoff is so tense that it nearly snarls, their eyes locked on each other, as another mirror explodes, circling – _circling –_

And then, before Chloe can brace herself, Charlotte whirls to her, slashes the knife down, and –

The leather straps part with a hiss, sliding off and falling, and Chloe sits up fast, even as she has no idea why the queen would set her free rather than finishing the job. Charlotte, however, looks pale, shaken. "I – " she whispers. "No, I can't. My sons – my sons are right, I couldn't – "

She makes a quick gesture, and the statues fighting Amenadiel and Maze freeze back into their usual inanimate stone, as both of them lurch forward and look confused when their blows meet only empty air. "Go!" Charlotte cries, flinging the doors of the hall open with a flick of her fingers. "Go, quickly!"

Amenadiel and Maze stare at each other, up at her, at Lucifer still there with her and Chloe, and then decide not to peer their good fortune too closely in the teeth. They sprint down the length of the hall and dodge through the doors, as Charlotte turns to Lucifer. "It's been so long," she says. "So long. But I – I can't buy my future with the blood of someone else you care for. You're right. I'm so sorry, son. Please, please forgive me."

Lucifer looks utterly baffled, and more than a little suspicious, but he likewise doesn't seem to want to linger around, in case she changes her mind. He moves forward and helps Chloe off the table, as she wants to yell at him to explain himself, what the _hell_ has happened, but is well aware that that too can wait. They hurry down the stairs, toward the still-open doors –

And then, directly in front of them, they slam shut.

Lucifer skids to a halt so fast that Chloe almost runs into his back. He puts her behind him, almost unconsciously, as he turns around to face his mother, who is standing at the top of the stairs with the glass knife in her hand, a strange, intent, exultant expression on her face. The silence persists, awfully, a moment longer. Then she says, "Lucifer, step aside."

"Mother – "

"The star's heart wasn't much good to me when it was at such a low ebb, angry and bitter and broken." Charlotte takes a step, face burning with an unearthly, hellish glow. "But you know, we _did_ call you the Lightbringer, once upon a time. I didn't know it was for her as well, but it suits. And Morningstar – to match _this_ star, almost. A touch of destiny, wouldn't you say? If you're making her shine again, I will become even stronger than before. I'm sorry, Lucifer. I am. But I did _not_ spend all those centuries in that foul prison where your father cast me, when neither you nor any of my children came to find me and break me out, to let the star go now. Stand aside."

Lucifer hesitates for a final moment. Then he says, "No."

Charlotte raises her hands, as the dwindling fires spring back to life, as the shattered mirrors shine with a dark, dangerous light, as the statues turn their carven heads with a tangible weight of menace. "I don't want to hurt you, son."

Lucifer shifts his weight, reaching for his sword, but Charlotte makes a gesture, and it flies out of his hand, clattering away across the filthy flagstones. He lunges to retrieve it, and in so doing, leaves Chloe, just long enough, standing there undefended. Charlotte winds up like a baseball pitcher, and unleashes a massive fireball at her.

Chloe dives out of the way just in time, feeling the sharp sting of broken glass in her hands, as the fire hits the animal cages and bursts them open. Wolves and badgers and alligators and weasels and roosters and rats and snakes pad and slink and slither and gallop out, still making that racket – but they don't go for Lucifer and Chloe. They rush the stairs toward Charlotte, who must keep them around for some cruel dark magic, and she scatters them with a rather frantic gesture, but doesn't deter them entirely. They continue trying to get up the stairs to her, as Lucifer takes the opportunity of his mother's distraction to grab Chloe by the wrist and drag her toward the door, but as hard as both of them push, yelling at Amenadiel and Maze on the far side, they can't get it open. The statues converge on them, as Lucifer slashes at them with his sword and one of them catches it in its stone gauntlet and rips it out of his hand. Then he unslings the cylinder of lightning that Shakespeare gave him, opens it up, and blasts them.

There is a violent explosion of hot white glow, hissing and snarling and crackling, as Lucifer scythes down the statues – the charge runs out just as the last one is crumbling into dust, ozone-scented smoke heavy on the air. Water hisses and slops and fizzes from the fountains, and broken glass from the mirrors and the chandelier lies everywhere. The animals hiss and bark and chitter. Charlotte is still coming, descending the stairs with glass knife upraised, face dead white. Lucifer seems to be in an utter trance as he stares at his mother. They have no other weapons.

And yet. Chloe has an idea. It's a completely foolish, impossible, desperate one, and it will probably delay their (or at least her) savage execution by a whopping thirty seconds or so, but it's all she has.

She turns to Lucifer. "Grab hold of me," she says hoarsely, "and close your eyes."

"Detective – I – "

"Just _do_ it!"

For once, even Lucifer doesn't argue. He grabs her, pulling her close, as she pushes his head down into her shoulder (it takes a lot of pushing, what with the height difference) and fixes her eyes on Charlotte. She doesn't know where she gets the strength, exactly. It's Trixie, and snuggling with her in bed and reading her a story after a late shift. It's Dan, still trying his best to be there for her, even after he sent it totally FUBAR. It's Linda, inviting her to Wall, telling her to stay as long as she wants, to rest. It's those memories of spending weekends with her dad, learning how to fix things, and the first day she stepped into the precinct and saw his name on the In Memoriam wall. It's her mom, despite everything, all the difficulties. It's Captain Shakespeare, teaching her to waltz on the deck of the _Caspartine._ It's in Chloe herself, because star or no star, no matter who she might be by genetics or magic or whatever else this is, she's lived a human life. Known human pain and loss and struggle and darkness, and not even the kind where stars do what they do best.

_Shine._

And yes.

Yes, more than she can possibly fathom or understand or control, so much that it bursts out of her as she goes alight, blossoming and dazzling with brilliant, scorching, unearthly white light, it is him. _Lightbringer. Morningstar._

Lucifer.

_Don't send me in dark despair, from all that I hunger for –_

Both of them burn like stars and suns and galaxies. Like the very heavens themselves.

_And tell him that he need be a stranger no more._

* * *

**X.**

Chloe Decker returns to Wall, England, two days later.

She gives the townspeople quite a fright, stumbling into a tearoom looking like she's escaped from a Ren Faire and with eyes that still reflect unearthly fire. Her disappearance has, of course, been noted, and there are missing posters and policemen who want to interview her, but she can't give any of them a satisfactory answer. She tries, but it's just gibberish, and she can't manage it for more than a few minutes before she almost breaks down. They decide it's better not to press her (and some of the older members of the force have more than an idea of what might have happened) and call Linda to pick her up. Linda drives her home, still in her dress and cloak and loosened hair and a gaze that seems a thousand miles away. She is once more wearing her small diamond necklace, which glows softly with a renewed strength of magic.

She does not say a word, and Linda does not ask her any questions.

In the morning, Chloe tries to explain, but finds that even to Linda, the words won't come. She doesn't think it's a spell, though it might be, Faerie guarding itself against any more interlopers. She wants to tell Linda everything that happened, and she wants to tell her that when she opened her own eyes in the witch's hall, after that ultimate, utter moment of truth, there was nothing left of Lilith but ashes, that she burned her with the brightness of her being, somehow. Wants to tell her about stumbling outside and finding Maze and Amenadiel, and Lucifer giving her necklace back to her and telling her that he had made sure it wouldn't fail her again, and it was time for her to go home. That she couldn't help herself, and wanted to know if perhaps he would come. If they might see each other again. You know. Thought she'd ask.

He said that he couldn't. His eyes flickering past hers, staring at something only he could see. The blood that wasn't his, or anyone she could think of, dried on his hands. The sense she had that he had done something terrible, and was – the odd and particular tragedy of both of them, her from the sky, him from Stormhold, and them now for each other – falling. Falling. Falling.

 _I can't,_ he said. _It's best. Go home, Detective._

_Lucifer. Talk to me. Tell me what you –_

_No._ His lips smiling, but his eyes looking at her like those of a drowned creature from the very bottom of a well. _I've made sure your charm won't fail you now. Go, Chloe._

_Go._

And how she feared, was _terrified,_ when she was walking to the Wall, that it wouldn't work after all, that it was some trick to see if she could cross, but it wasn't. She stepped from Faerie back into Earth, and did not turn to dust. Whatever he's done, whatever bargain he made, whatever sin he committed, whoever's blood he spilled, she won't know, and it does not matter. He's given it up for her, given it all up, and the moment she knows it was real, that she didn't dream any of it, that it was what she thought, that it was, it _was –_ she loses it.

Chloe isn't entirely sure she's ever going to actually shine again.

She supposes she doesn't need to, this side of the wall.

She starts the long journey home. She's only late by a few days, and can't answer Linda when she asks if Chloe will want to come back sometime. How can she come back and enjoy the village and pretend not to know what lies beyond the wall, resist the utter temptation to cross? But she can't. Lilith's sisters are still in their prison. They could get out one day.

Faerie is no safe haven for a star. No home for her. Hers is here. That is the choice that, this time, she made.

Chloe returns, at long last, to Los Angeles feeling as if she's in a dream from which she can't quite wake. She's glad to see Trixie, and she's glad to get home, but that first night back, sitting on the balcony, watching the palm trees sway and gazing out over the skyscrapers in the distance, looking at the lights of traffic and the strange noir magic of this place with its dreams and its mysteries and its murders. Its thin places, where perhaps a bit of that other world peeps through. The stars can barely fight through the city glow, but even here, they shine. Especially on a beach at midnight, perhaps, and a door that opens between here and there –

But that is, after all, the real dream. And it is over.

Wake up, Chloe.

Wake up.

She goes inside at last, shuts the curtains. Undresses, and prepares to get into bed. Her life begins again tomorrow. Her return to work. To the question of how you go back, after everything.

And then, as she's turning down the covers, there is a knock on her front door.

She tenses. It's very late for a new case, but maybe this one is urgent. It's also too late for a package delivery, or a visitor, or anyone except trouble, and suddenly she wonders if perhaps someone unwelcome has found where she lives. She is in the line of work where it's best to keep your home address under wraps, after all, and she checks that Trixie is in bed, her door shut, before she reaches for her gun. Eases down the stairs, thumb on the safety, and crosses to the front door. Takes a better grip, opens it a crack. "Who's there?"

"Well," a familiar voice says. "You know. I did say I wanted to come to Los Angeles."

Chloe's heart stops in her chest. She can feel it. And then it starts again, the _world_ starts again, even as it is rushing onwards helter-skelter, too fast for her to keep up, and she can't breathe, feels as if she has been doused in cold water, and she knows that, she'd know it anywhere. She doesn't understand, she _doesn't,_ but just then, it doesn't matter a single damn.

She drops the gun and pushes the door open.

Lucifer Morningstar grins at her, dark eyes sparkling, still as wet as if he has just waded from the waves. "Good evening, Detective," he says as she stands there, and stands there, and stands there, staring without a word. "I tried, you know. To stay away. But I – " He pauses, shaking his head, as if it is an unfathomable mystery to him as well, and finally says, quietly, softly, simply, as if it is the only explanation he can come up with, "I didn't want to."

Chloe reaches out, and draws him across the threshold. There is a dim light in the hall that does not come from any lamp, or torch, or bulb, or candle, or sun, or moon.

It's above her head, faint at first, then stronger. Whiter. Brighter.

As his arms come around her waist, as hers link around his neck, as their mouths meet, as her lips open, as they kiss silently and lightly at first, and then as if they have been starving for a hundred years and a hundred more, it blazes.

_Starlight._

It rattles the very windows.

And outside, somewhere high in the sky, in the dark and deep firmament, gazing on the earth below, her sisters look down, see her – see _them –_

and smile.

 

**THE END.**


End file.
